


The Hill, the View, and the Lights

by invective



Series: Writing Commissions [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Paralysis, Quadriplegia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7423219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invective/pseuds/invective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After escaping her father’s clutches and becoming the newest addition of Batman’s family, Cassandra Cain starts to think that yes, maybe she can adjust to life in Gotham City. She’s got a supportive circle, and a girlfriend who seems to be as much in love with Cass as she is with her. However, after a wholly avoidable accident after a patrol with life-changing consequences, Cass has to reevaluate her life and what it really means to be at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As far as adjustment goes, Cass has barely learned how to pronounce their names. The monosyllabic ones are easy -- Tim, Duke, Steph (and the latter glows every time her name leaves Cass’s lips). She has trouble curling her mouth around the ‘Br,’ but he’s content with being ‘Baroose’ until she improves. ‘Alfured’ has been patient, as a teacher out to be; yet it surprises her that Damian abates his temper, just for her.

(”Adequate,” he had sniffed after she haltingly sounded out his name for the first time.)

Adjustment is a loose term, though. Any time they tell her they should do something together, they tell her they’ll ‘wait until she’s ready.’ That includes saying each other’s names. She’s appreciative, of course -- because of them, she’s gone from being David Cain’s daughter to being Batman’s ... not daughter. Ally, perhaps. She’s been given the opportunity to redeem the Orphan name, which means that she still has something to be grateful for, in addition to her freedom. In spite of all this, she still has no idea where she stands with them, even if they give every apparent indication that she’s family.

(The feeling’s too foreign.)

“Cassandra,” Bruce calls, catching her as she leaves the Cave. Post-training isn’t exactly the best time, but she doesn’t refuse, instead stopping and removing her compression gloves. She rubs her forehead with a towel and watches his measured steps as he approaches her. “I wanted to speak more with you about the idea of a potential adoption.”

Cass considers. It’ll be the same old conversation they’ve always had in the months that she’s been with him, but she can’t deny the fact that he’s become more ... convincing over time. The idea of a ‘legal’ family is arbitrary at best, but persistence has its benefits. It’s managed to put the thought in her head. “Okay,” she responds, because Alfred tells her that vocalizing more often will make it easier for her to speak.

Bruce smiles lightly, almost imperceptibly to anyone but herself. She follows him into his study, taking a seat as it’s offered to her. She tries not to look around the dimly lit room, illuminated only by a too-high chandelier and a quaint little desk lamp. Her gaze falls instead to the furniture in front of her. THere are papers littered in the desk that weren’t there before, but she tries to seem as though she’s not looking at them. It’s not like she could read the black blobs on the white sheets anyway. There were too many letters in too small print for her to decipher in a timely manner.

“I know the idea’s been brewing in our heads for a while -- at least it has in mine,” Bruce begins, sitting heavily in his black leather chair. His papers clack on his mahogany table as he straightens them and puts them off to the side in a neat pile. “I understand that this idea may also be a little frightening. You haven’t been living here long, and the idea of ... joining a brand new family may be a little strange.”  


Cass nods, following along quietly. Remembering Alfred’s advice, she quickly adds, “Mm-hmm.”

“I want you to know that we’ll be here for you no matter what,” he continues. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach over but thinks better of it. She wishes he hadn’t. “What you went through, no one should have ever experienced -- in fact, I’d go as far as to say that no one should have led lives similar to our own. And that makes it all the more important that we’re here for each other.  


“Now, that isn’t to say that adoption is the ... be-all, end-all for familial relationships -- part of the reason why I’m proposing this is because of the financial and civil security that it will provide for you. People are less likely to ask questions about Bruce Wayne’s newest trust fund baby -- not to say that is what you will become.”  


She blinks. She’ll never admit that the idea is frightening, fearless as the Bat needs his family to be. The thought of the public scrutiny she’d have to endure as a celebrity’s newest adopted child was the stuff of nightmares. Cass barely considered the tentative, brand-new relations she had with the rest of the Bat’s family to be communication enough. It was no secret that the growing Wayne family had attracted some criticism, claiming Bruce was seeking to be the parents he never had, and she’d quickly decided that reading tabloids for practice was not something she would continue doing, which made her all the more inclined to refuse his offer.

Yes, it would make her upcoming enrollment in Gotham Academy a lot easier to have the most popular man in the whole city as her guardian, but with his name brought a degree of sociability. Duke and Tim managed to stave it off well enough, but she couldn’t find it in herself to dodge quite so artfully as her potential brothers. She shifts in her chair uncomfortably flicking to and from Bruce’s gaze. The positives and the negatives have circled in her head for weeks, and this re-opened can of worms has not done anything to solve the issue.

“Cassandra?” Bruce says quietly. His brows furrow slightly, creating a crease between them. His mouth twitches,caught between a tentative smile and an outright frown. He’s not sure what expression he wants to adopt, and he’s unable to decode her thoughts. “Can you tell me what you’re thinking?”  


She nods once, jerkily. “Not,” she says, “yet.”

Bruce leans back in his chair, expression still unreadable. She can see the gears turning in his head, the infamous Bat’s brain as it works to comprehend her response. She can see that he acknowledges her apprehension, but then has to process the time frame the word ‘yet’ sets up. She doubts he’s going to get very far on that train of thought, seeing as she herself wasn’t quite sure when ‘yet’ was either. The most important thing was that the shadow in his eyes wasn’t disappointment. She’d had enough of that.

The silence between them grows less comfortable and more off-putting when she realizes Bruce has nothing more to say. He straightens his already-straight papers again and opens his mouth to gently dismiss her, before the door to the study bangs open and Cass whips her head around to stare at the intruder. A book falls off its shelf, seemingly born of comedic timing after the jarring movement.

“Oh,” says Steph brightly, “Alfred told me I’d find you two here. If you’re not busy, Cass, I was wondering if you’d like to go out on the town with me?”  


They have patrol later -- as far as Cass is concerned, that’s as nice of a night out on the town as she needs. But Steph has always been one for traditional, classical romantics, often leaving Cassandra at a loss. Cass turns to look back at Bruce, whose lips haven’t yet quirked back up, but also are pointedly not turned down. He’s getting ready for his own patrol, and she can hear the squeak of Damian’s new boots on the floor as he heads to collect his father from the study as well.

“Go ahead,” Bruce says, eyes drifting downward to his work.  


And with that, the two are summarily dismissed from Bruce’s attention. He resumes whatever investigative reports he’d been studying intensely, and Cass surprises him by patting him on the hand before getting up and closing the door behind her and Steph.

They make it a good ten feet down the corridor, past a speed-walking, sour-faced Damian, before Steph opens her mouth. “He was talking about it again, wasn’t he?” She casts Cass a ‘Look,’ pushing a strand of flaxen hair behind her ear. “I know it makes you kind of weirded out to think about it. It does, doesn’t it?” Cass doesn’t respond, but Steph presses on anyway. “Maybe you should tell him to stop.”

“Maybe,” Cass says offhandedly.  


Steph purses her lips. Cass knows that she doesn’t like the idea of Bruce pressuring Cass to join the family, but her very occupation revealed the lack of affinity she had shared with her father, not to mention the trust her mother betrayed. A fundamental discrepancy exited between how she and Cass viewed the idea of family. There was a part of her that questioned Cass’s decision to retain the name of Orphan, but she had never quite vocalized any concerns she had, to which Cass was glad. It was good that they have their differences. It made her remember that Steph was real.

The disparities in their minds is made even more tangible when Steph takes her hand a fits her fingers between Cass’s, squeezing gently before relaxing her hold. 

Physical contact was a gift, a message, from Cassandra. Love, hate, disgust, pity, all of it could be delivered with a touch. But in addition to being a creature of romance, Steph was also a creature of habit.

Rather than meaningful, long touches and strokes, it was always the same, every time, robotic in frequency but never in feeling. Cass’s heart flutters every time, and she never gets tired of it. Never gets tired of the feeling that Steph gives her every time she wants to go out, or every time cherry flavored lip gloss ends up imprinted on her cheek.

Steph continues to not speak, and Cass breathes out slightly heavier through her nose, satisfied that the subject has been dropped. It was a personal choice, not to be openly debated by an outsider. She allows herself to be the one initiating the handholding, and is reassured by the gentle pressure that Steph’s fingers return. “Where?” Cass asks, flicking quickly to peer at Steph out of the corner of her eye. “... Clothes?”

It seems that Steph only realizes that Cass is still in her sweaty workout attire only after prompting. “Oh!” she says, then laughs, shaking her head. Cass tries not to spend too much time studying the slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes as she squeezes them shut in her mirth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even notice. I was hoping we could ... just walk around a bit, so you should probably change, yeah.”

Cass smiles. “And show-wer.”

“And shower.”  


She does it just as nimbly as she does everything else -- eating, breathing, and beating up super-villains -- and they’re out the door before Bruce and Damian depart in the Batmobile. Knowing that their wandering was aimless, Cass decides it’s better to slip on the trainers that she had been wearing earlier, though a cautionary sniff had to be taken. It hadn’t been enough to make her flinch, so she settles in them and rolls on the balls of her feet.

Steph gives her that little smile from the doorway that makes Cass flinch internally, small and forming just slightly by the movement of the corners of her mouth. _It’s been months_ , Cass reminds herself, mentally giving herself a slap to the forehead, _she should not be making you feel like this_. But she has a sneaking suspicion that Steph always will.

“Ready to go?” Steph asks and Cass nods, letting her fingers slip through hers again. They bid their farewells to Alfred, who is already making preparations to aid Bruce and Damian from the cave.  


The streets of Gotham are seldom safe to wander at night, but their sojourn’s adjacency to the Batman’s early evening patrol makes it slightly better for the two of them -- also given the fact that they can take care of themselves just fine. So long as they stay in the brightly lit areas, they shouldn’t have any issues to deal with before their shift, which seems to be what Steph is leaning towards. The bells chime five times, and pedestrians mill about, blissfully unaware of whom walked among them.

“How was your day?” Cass asks pleasantly. She’s been employing the basic phrases that Alfred has been teaching her, gearing them towards automatic prompts that can provoke easy enough conversation. She has thoughts, can articulate them in her head, but has difficulty forming the sounds. But practice makes perfect, so she figures she ought to start. Language and mundane communication was a lot harder than she’d anticipated.  


Steph dips her head, appreciative for the starter. “It was ... good. I always get these pre-school jittery nerves. Do you? -- I mean, are you? Must be a strange experience, going to school for the first time, and to a private academy of all places. I remember my first day of school, when I was little. Everything seemed so big and so scary, so many strangers, and just .. the uncertainty of ‘new people.’ But at least you’ve got Tim and Duke to help you out.” She smiles, nudging Cass with her elbow. “Better than going in there all alone, right?”

“Yes,” she responds easily. “Much better.”  


“How about you?” Stephanie prompts. It’s a conscious and obvious form of getting Cass herself to talk, and she takes time to carefully construct her response. With barely names and stock phrases under her belt, she’s hoping that the progress she makes on speaking actual sentences (however short they may be) makes itself evident.  


Cass tries, “It was okay too. Had big breakfast. Trained.” She pauses at Steph’s encouraging nod. “Then you.” A tentative smile graces her face, broadened when Steph beams in return, a glow to her cheeks. They don’t look nearly as warm as Cass’s feel at the two-worded phrase.

It has become a routine, this tete-a-tete. Cass tries to start a conversation, Steph answers and prompts her, then Cass responds and tries to further it along, and so on and so forth until they have nothing to talk about. Generally the tactic seems to be working so far. Her improvement at improvisation is palpable, and Alfred seems nothing if not supportive. 

It’s easier to pretend her lack of speech is the foremost of her problems, but it’s also something she’s far more willing to tackle. Sometimes she’ll point out words on windows and street signs that she can read, too, though that’s coming along admittedly slower than vocalization is. It’s a bit of shock, to have not become quickly proficient at something -- but literacy is altogether a different form of combat, a language combat may be in it of itself.

( _So this_ , she thinks sometimes, _is what it’s like to be a normal person. What it’s like to learn normal-people things_.)

“What... were you doing?” Cass poses. “Before.” She purses her lips, thinking the continuation tenuous at best, redundant at worst. She doesn’t like going in circles much.  


“Well, I was bored, but then I realized I could come visit you.” Cass feels herself flush at the grin, returning it with equal verve. “It’s been how long since you’ve been living in Gotham? A few months? And you’ve already gotten to know it inside out by rooftop with Bruce, learned to watch it with a vigilante’s eye. So I thought you ought to get to know the city at ground level, too. After all, I’m sure the friends you make at Gotham Academy are gonna want to go out often. Makes it easier to get around if you know the city by heart, and maybe you can figure out shortcuts to impress your friends.”  


It was awfully presumptuous of Steph to believe that Cassandra would be making friends left and right at the Academy, but the thought brightened her. Maybe it _was_ possible, being as social as it was posited for her to be. The assumption could be a goal for her to set -- have friends and take them to cool places in the city. As if they hadn’t already lived in the city longer than she did, despite the nightly patrols that familiarized her to the location. She might have known the criminal hotspots, but they’d know the best burger joints.

Quid-pro-quo worked, she supposes. It was working for her and Steph so far, and even at this very moment, so it stands to reason it should be the same for others, romantically inclined or not.

“What do you like so far about living with Bruce Wayne?” The words break her out of her thoughts, and it’s not a question she can answer quickly. Something of a non sequitur, but Cass appreciates the thought-provoking ones.  


Her living situation is complicated, a topic she hadn’t thought Steph would grace. The adoption debacle aside, the time they’d spent apart from each other hadn’t exactly come up beyond tangential conversation. Work and plan were things that, as Cass understood, should seldom intertwine; that wasn’t the case for either of them. As allies (and technical charges) to Batman, they saw each other almost every day -- whether the sun was up or not. But curiously, any recreational time had always voided the mention of Wayne Manor.

“Good group,” she decides after some deliberation. “Good people. Nice. Patient -- sometimes too much.” There’s only so many times she can hear the words ‘until you’re ready’ before she wants to snap and tell them that she won’t be, that no one’s ever gotten anywhere by waiting until they were ready. “Good people,” she repeats  


“They are,” Steph agrees. For a moment, Cass thinks of the spark that had passed between her and Tim, but the end result of whatever had been there was Steph wanting to be with Cass, so there was little point in pondering what might have been. They would’ve, at the very least, looked good together, but Tim doesn’t seem to think very much of it, and the three of them haven’t exactly spoken on the topic. She figures it means there’s nothing to speak of anyway. “I’m glad that they’re treating you well.”  


“Me too.” That comes to her easily. Her upbringing came in stark contrast with what she had experienced at Wayne Manor -- nothing but compassion and kindness and patience and respect. Rather than focusing on the art of shedding blood, she learned to prevent bloodshed, to protect. Failure was not met with sharp, painful rebukes, but rather gentle platitudes and reassurances.  


No matter how many times its youngest inhabitant was prone to snapping at others, he had also felt a kinship with Cass, something she felt too, a connection between children trained to murder. Bruce, no matter his trauma,s could never quite match the affinity that was between her and Damian. A mutual respect that came with understanding.

And Tim and Duke had been so kind. While the former had something of a sourness about him, the latter had gone out of his way to provide Cass the comfort she needed. While neither of the boys, like brothers to her now, she supposes, had ever given her the same feeling of alliance that Damian had, it was more than telling that she found herself at ease with them. They were going to be good allies to have. With them around, she’d never really be alone.

Alfred was a tutor. Omnipresent and patient, he’d taken great pains to accommodate Cass’s own struggle to acclimate to her new environment, and had taken time out of his day to teach her how to speak and read. And on days when she struggled to grasp the day’s concepts, he’d set aside more time for further tutelage. She wondered often how someone with such a full schedule could possibly have subsisted on gratitude for his servitude alone. Most of the time he spent alone was while he was working on duties such as cooking or cleaning, but it meant he was always there, and he was always ready to help.

Bruce ... Bruce was the father she never had. David Cain had ben present, indeed, but the entirety of their relationship was defined by her ability to follow his orders. Love was never a factor, and though she appreciated what she learned from the man, he never gave her the sense of belonging Bruce did. With him brought the opportunity of permanence, and of love and affection. A family.

At Cass’s silence, Steph spins on her heel, heading towards the crosswalk. Everybody’s getting off work at about the same time, so Cass makes sure not to let go of her hand. Wouldn’t do to lose her in the middle of a crowded Gotham street as the sun was setting. “It makes me want to stay over more often,” Steph muses. “Seems like a good place to live.”

“You could,” Cass blurts, then blinks rapidly as she tries to come up with a follow-up. “With me.”  


The thought had been a passing fancy she had entertained, the suggestion of a little microcosm of support localized in one place. She’d never have to leave the house, and honestly, it couldn’t have been unheard of for a billionaire’s children to be homeschooled, if they didn’t attend a prestigious private academy. Everything she needed would have been in one singular, centralized location. Judging by the simpering expression on Steph’s face, it was something she had though of as well.

But it probably wasn’t the healthiest way to go about dealing with her problems. The adjustment that eluded her extended beyond communication and into interpersonal ties. Although a little dream world was idealistic and pleasant, it was a reluctantly present reality that she had to encompass the big, wide world.

Following orders from a young age stifled a certain instinct in her. She was less inclined to begin thinking about the macrocosm she dwelled in and more about the small things -- what she was supposed to do and how she was supposed to go about it. Action, objective, a singular consequence. But life wasn’t like that for her anymore. She lived in Gotham City; she was Orphan, Batman’s newest apprentice. She was no longer responsible for dispatching a single individual each time she was released, but with the protection of an entire city from those who would wish to do its citizens harm.

It was a great deal of responsibility, but it was a responsibility that made her heart swell. It was the good kind of responsibility, the one that makes you feel worthy, that pushes you to keep meeting it every single day. It’s different. Perhaps a bit strange. But it isn’t bad.

And she isn’t dealing with it alone, either. There is a family for her now. Boys, who aren’t blood but good enough, and a girl who (hopefully ) loves her are there.

Steph clears her throat and scuffs her toes on the ground. She scratches at her back absently, and Cass notes that she’s left the reticence that sits between them hanging for too long. “Probably not the best of ideas,” she tells Cass. “I might be a little distracting to you.” A wink brings levity back into her gaze.

“A little?” Cass says, and Steph snorts, smacking her lightly on the arm.  


“You know what I mean.”  


They continue to walk in silence, absorbing the bustle of late-evening Gotham. A lot of people see the dark in the city, the cesspool of crime that it becomes after the clocks chime eight. But it’s like this, with the bright orange of the sky announcing the sun’s departure, that one can see the city as it is. It can be a sleepy city, full of people desperate to return to warm beds, warm arms, and perhaps a warm drink. Small gestures of goodwill are offered as small mom and pop shops close, offering little leftover lollipops to lollygagging children rushing home from the park, a restaurant packing up leftovers and going to the underpasses to hand out what they’ve got all stashed up.

Cass never would’ve expected this place to be the focal point of her responsibility. But then again, she never would’ve expected to be set free by the Batman, and offered a place in his home. Her father probably wouldn’t have been proud, but she figured that little she did would have pleased him in the way that she wanted to please him anyway.

So she settled for being someone Bruce Wayne would be proud of. Someone Alfred Pennyworth would like to teach, a worthy ally for Tim Drake, Duke Thomas, and Damian Wayne. Someone Stephanie Brown would like to kiss and keep kissing and someone Steph would love calling her girlfriend. It seems like an easy compromise.

“Well,” Steph says, looking up at the sky. The streets seem emptier and her words ring louder in the absence of car horns and pedestrians’ idle talk, and the sky seems dimmer than it had been before. “It’s getting late. It’s just about time for our shift.” She glances quickly at her watch, which Cass assumes confirms her postulation. “Ready to head home?”

Cass rubs a thumb over her purlicue. She turns, watching the sun as it lowers beyond the horizon and makes way for the night. There’s the electricity that arcs up her veins and spine the moment the sun sets, paving the way for their patrol. An exhilaration commenced by the uncertainty of a city after dark, the adrenaline that keeps her running in the wee hours of the night.

Orphan and Spoiler. Cass and Steph. Better partners than Clayface could ever be. Behind closed doors, even more.

“Home,” she agrees.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm.

Cassandra loves the Gotham cityscape, especially at night. There’s too much pollution for her to see the stars in the sky, but the city’s architecture itself is breathtaking, ancient and full of so much history. A city meant to be seen after dark, but its appeal is ruined by the filth that stains its streets. Part of her laments the fact that’s she’s one of the few who gets to see Gotham as it was truly meant to be seen, illuminated by floodlights and the windows of people’s homes.

“Ready?” Steph asks, coming up behind her. She’s tugging her magenta hood on, stretching her leg lightly. They’ve been patrolling together for months now, so she should know when Cass is read. But still, she asks.  


“Yes,” Cass responds. Her voice is muffled by her mask, but she’s grateful for the opportunity to vocalize.  


Part of Cass thinks she will never get used to this. This isn’t their first patrol by far, and neither are the jitters that ensue. The uncertainties of the outcome of battle, an anxiety that wraps around her like a vice, mingles with the adrenaline that races through her veins. Something will happen tonight, she knows it.

Steph takes a running start and leaps right off the building, leaving Cass to stare at her wake. Plum fabric stretches across the area where Steph is, creating a sort of parachute before a grappling hook shoots out of one corner of the cloak, and Spoiler is dragged along with the rope.

Orphan jumps after her, and the city is rushing by in a blur, wind whipping her hair across her cheeks and whistling in her ears. Somewhere, in the distance, a woman shrieks as a thief yanks her purse away from her. Spoiler throws a look back at her -- target acquired. There may be bigger fish to fry, but the guppies matter all the same.

The night has begun and it is theirs.

* * *

She allows herself to take in the sound of the crashing waves. It’s still dark out, but one can make out the slightest of lights in the distance, an omen declaring the sun’s arrival. They should’ve been back hours ago, but she supposes the two of them had gotten carried away. Not like it mattered, though -- they saw Tim and Duke out, so they’d probably told Bruce and Alfred where she and Steph were and that they were okay. It’s just the two of them now, at the beach, in the dark, three muggers and a Riddler-goon encounter later. Even then, Cass isn’t sure that the night hides her blush.

It’s too hot -- even for her, a girl trained under the most extreme duress. After a fairly uneventful night where there were only two close brushes with serious injury, she’s allowed to have some bottled up steam. But that may also be because of her proximity to Steph and the tightness of her costume. Cass tries to look like she’s not looking, and given by the lack of response Steph gives and the fact that she’s not even looking back at Cass but rather at the sea gives her enough confidence to keep sneaking glances.

Steph tugs her hood down, raising a brow. “Nice place. I’m not looking forward to getting slapped with a trespassing charge, though. Doesn’t the beach close at ten?”

There’s not much to see at this hour of dark, but it’s enough to get Cass excited. There was always that allure with the ocean, one that she’d never gotten to explore. There was something inherently fun about it, something that drew her to the water and made her want to dip her toes in, then her feet, and then her torso, and just... splash around. It was a frivolous desire, irrelevant to her ‘true purpose’ as her father’s pawn, so she just simply wasn’t allowed to indulge herself. “Yes.”

So what if it did? They’re both skilled enough at misdirection and subterfuge to not only draw attention away from themselves, but hide if need be from any nosy people investigating the sound of two teenage girls’ laughter. Besides, they’re on the less villainous side of ‘illegal’ here. It isn’t as if they’re doing anything _wrong_ \-- just indulging in a bit of fun.

Cass turns, tossing Steph a quick and easy grin. “In?” she offers, and Steph looks quickly between Cass’s outstretched arm and the water in front of them, lapping at their boots. This isn’t exactly something they’ve done before -- despite what most think, they’re particularly adept at keeping their work life separated from their private life and their childish desires (one of which, apparently, was the desire for some late night swimming. Whether that progressed to skinny-dipping... Cass didn’t want to make any assumptions). But it seems so fun right now, so easy. She doesn’t think of consequences, only that she wants to hop right in.

When Steph doesn’t answer, she breaks into a run. Steph yelps in surprise, but laughs soon after, and Cass can hear her footsteps pattering along the wet sand behind her, so she knows she’s lured her in. “Slow down!” Steph calls, but Cass has no intention of doing so. She does, however, have every intention of getting her entire costume soaked, so, like anyone would, she dives directly into the surf.

The moment she jumps in, she knows there’s something wrong. The water shouldn’t be hitting her this hard, she shouldn’t be swept away this easily. Instead of being filled with the joy she’d predicted she’d enjoy, she’s instead gripped with a paralyzing fear. There’s little else she can do other than flail, hope that maybe the sight of her arm or a leg thrown above the surface will let Steph know that something’s wrong.

Except she doesn’t even have enough time for that -- a tremendous upsurge slams into her powerfully, and she feels her neck snap back with a sickening crack. Everything goes dark for a few moments, and she thinks she’s fallen unconscious. But she feels the swell of the water around her, a lull almost mocking after the crest that had just assaulted her. Everything feels wrong, and she can’t move her arm.

As it turns out, she can’t move her other one. Nor her right leg. Not even her left.

Even turning her head is laborious, almost unmanageable. Instinct tells her not to panic, but it doesn’t mean that she would also obey. She cries out, gasping as water fills her mouth. She’s pressed up against a sandbar, from what she can tell -- and she can tell very little -- meaning she’s not going to be pulled out to sea any time soon. Steph must still be nearby -- she’d never leave without Cass. That’s good. It means help is nearby. Reachable.

But Cass can’t feel anything, can’t move anything. There’s nothing she can do to get Steph’s attention but yell brokenly, and then water seeps behind her neck and loosens her perch on the sandbar. Her frantic blinking doesn’t allow her to see how far out the sandbar is from the water’s edge -- she can’t even see Steph. It’s too dark; they should’ve gone during the day. But even then, it wasn’t like Cass was expecting to get hurt.

All she can think is the word ‘No’ over and over and over in her head, a litany of pleas and sobs; she doesn’t want to die, she doesn’t want to die like this, doesn’t want to die from something that could’ve been avoided. If she hadn’t decided to go to the beach, if they hadn’t decided that night was a good time to play, without supervision, without anyone to warn her that a wave was creeping up on her. If she hadn’t been so unaware of her surroundings, if she had simply made the right choices.

Another wave crashes into her, flinging her face down into the water. She’s floating aimlessly, she knows, even if only the abyss is there staring at her. David had trained her to last long periods of time holding her breath, but the training won’t help in a situation in which she can’t resume breathing, as she must. Her heart hammers wildly in her ears, simultaneously clenching hard enough to hurt, and she squeezes her eyes shut. There’s no difference between what she saw when they were open, but seeing the backs of her eyelids is a minor comfort, a solidity and permanence and control in knowing exactly what it was that she was looking at.

So this is it. This is how she goes.

She releases the breath she’d been struggling to hold but then her head is spun around, leaving her dizzy, and now open air is what her face is buried in, rather than saltwater. Cass splutters, gasping loudly as sand slowly slides under her head. She expels what water she can from her lungs and opens her eyes, seeing Steph hauling her onto the beach. Her heart breaks.

Steph’s face is twisted in horror, fear leaving her big blue eyes bright and even larger than it seemed was possible. “Oh no,” she whispers softly. “Oh no, oh no, oh no. Cass, are you okay?”

“Can’t,” Cass chokes, “can’t... I can’t... I can’t f-feel...”  


“What can’t you feel?” Steph’s eyes leave hers for a moment, and her hands run all over Cass’s body, squeezing certain appendages in search of a reaction. Cass can’t sense any of it, even if she can see the movements. The numbness is too strong, threatening to rip even her consciousness from her. “Talk to me, Cass. What’s wrong? What can’t you feel?”  


“Everything,” Cass says softly. She feels tears slide down her cheeks, but can’t reach either of her arms up to wipe them away. “Nothing. Anything. I can’t feel anything.”  


“Anything?” Steph gasps. “No... Oh no, Cass, I’m so sorry... I...” She looks up frantically, eyes searching fro something. Help. She won’t find any. The beach has been closed for over four hours, and it won’t open until ten in the morning. That leaves seven hours until anyone would even think to show up. “Hold on. Stay here. Don’t move.”  


Cass fights the urge to say, “I can’t.” She whimpers as Steph leaves her vision, jumping upward and leaving sand in her wake, splattered across Cass’s chest. It’s hard to breathe, so she forces to even out her intake of air. Steph will be back. She wouldn’t have just left Cass here, just dumped her on the beach for some early-morning surfers to find. She wasn’t like that, she wasn’t --

Steph lunges back into view, holding onto two sun dresses that she quickly dumps into the water, drenching them. “Hold on!” she shouts, and then comes bounding back. She lifts Cass up carefully, pressing her head against her shoulder. She starts to undress Cass with one hand, the other one in use by holding her up.

“W-what...” Cass mumbles, too afraid, too strung out to be embarrassed. Her shoulder planets come off first, then her top. Steph reaches down to yank off her boots, inhaling sharply when she pulls particularly hard and watches Cass’s face for any inkling of pain that she might have caused. The numbness persists. Cass starts to cry in earnest when her paints are slid off, and Steph murmurs apologies into her hair.  


“I’m so sorry,” Steph says, and it sounds like she’s crying too. Why are they both crying? One of them has to be strong. “I’m so sorry, Cass. I gotta get you out of this before I call for help, okay? We can’t let anyone know... I’m sorry.”  


She rearranges Cass’s arms, lifting them to slide the wet dress over them, and then shifts to have Cass’s rear rest on her knee as she smooths out the skirt. Steph quickly slides flip-flops onto Cass’s unresponsive feet. She gently lays Cass down and stands to remove her own costume, looking around for a place to hide it. Something deep inside of Cass thinks Steph would’ve looked so beautiful in that yellow dress, if it wasn’t soaked and Steph didn’t look like she wanted to cry. Her nose was red, eyes wet, and her hair was plastered to her forehead and cheeks. Cass can’t imagine she looks any better, but the mere fact that Steph was here with her and not running off to beg for help made her the most beautiful thing in the world. She was _here_.

Steph reaches into her belt and hood, sliding her comlink into her ear. “Bruce,” Cass can hear Steph whimper. “Bruce, help. We’re at the beach -- something... something’s wrong. Send an ambulance, please, as fast as they can. It’s an emergency.”

There’s indistinct chatter, distinctly panicked. Steph reaches up to press her hand against her other ear, blocking out the noise of the ocean and presumably Cass’s hiccuping. “No, Im not hurt. It’s Cass, Bruce, please -- it’s on its way? Okay. Yes. Yes, we did. I’m not going anywhere.”

Bruce says something else, and Steph exhales. “Okay, I’ll see you at the hospital.” Tearing the comm out of her ear, she tosses it into the folds of her costume, tossing the bundle into the water. She doesn’t watch it float out into the open ocean, instead crouching over Cass.

“Hey,” she says quietly, wiping the tears from Cass’s eyes. She lifts her gently, placing Cass’s head on her lap. “Help is coming, okay? They’re gonna be here soon.” She smooths Cass’s hair from her face, stroking through the tangles and knots as soothingly as she can. “Can you tell me what happened?”  


“Dove in.” Cass closes her eyes, hoping to block out the sight from her memory in spite of her verbal recollection. “Wave hit me. Slammed me, my head snapped back. Blacked out for a minute.” She opens her eyes again, sees pity swimming in Steph’s eyes.  


“I’m sorry,” Cass whispers, and Steph’s face twists.”  


“No!” Steph says sharply. Her hands freeze, tightening her grip on Cass’s hair. “Don’t you dare. This isn’t your fault. Yes, it could’ve been avoided, but it wasn’t your fault. It was... God, it sounds stupid to say it was the ocean’s, but it was. You couldn’t have predicted that wave was coming. You couldn’t have foreseen that it would hit you that hard, that you would slam into that sandbar. You couldn’t have predicted this, Cass, so please, don’t say you’re sorry. It was not your fault.” She leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, both cheeks, reaching her lips.  


The five points of success. It was a little joke they’d come up with. When it was first employed, it was cute.

Regardless of what platitudes Steph was offering, Cass was still lying here, limp on her lap. Seriously injured, recovery dubious. She was still lying here, unable to move. Cass can’t look her in the eye, averting her gaze. She winces internally at the pained noise Steph makes.

A siren screeches nearby, and Steph tears her eyes away from Cass’s face to look up. “Help is here, Cass... They’re here. It’s gonna be okay.” She goes on to say more, but Cass can no longer hear her as she falls unconscious.

* * *

She wakes up days later, she learns from Bruce. He was sitting by her bed, head buried in his hands. It’s only by chance that he saw her opening her eyes, seemingly rising to get himself more of whatever’s in the styrofoam cup gripped in his left hand, only to find that she had awoken. “Oh, thank God,” Bruce says, with all the relief and faith of a man of the cloth, which he pointedly was not. “I’ll get the doctor.”

Just as quickly as he had filled her vision -- first a blur of dark cloth curled in on itself, before finally focusing to appear as something resembling a human being -- he leaves. She can only watch as his back retreats out the door, and Cass hopes that his promise to return with the physician would be a promise he kept. Steph was nowhere to be seen, as she learned when carefully turning her head to the other side. Her neck is pillows by a brace, held stiffly in place. She closes her eyes but finds she can’t retreat into a blanket of sleep again. It’s probably best if she doesn’t.

In a few moments, she hears the automatic door hiss open, followed by Bruce and a person in a lab coat she can only presume is the doctor he spoke of. Cass tries to speak, but finds that her voice is nothing but a weak rasp. The doctor holds her hand up, and Cass shuts her mouth.

“Just nodding and shaking your head will do for the questions that I have for you,” the doctor says sharply, and Bruce retakes his seat on the uncomfortable-looking plastic chair. “Are you in any pain?”  


Cass’s head twinges, but it’s more in discomfort than pain. She shakes her head, slow and with some difficulty. She can’t focus, eyes darting around the sterile, white room. It’s almost too bright, but her rapid blinking when she first awoke leaves her starting to adjust. There’s too much for her to think about.

Bruce’s hands are clasped together in front of him, mouth set grimly. It’s a look that Cass has seen on him all too many times, so she can’t be too surprised, even if it ought to be unsettling. The posture resembles one lost in thought, but the sharpness of his eyes portrays laser-focus as he witnesses their exchange.

The doctor isn’t someone she recognizes, and nothing about her gives away the fact that she knows more than she needs to, so she keeps her mouth shut. She has auburn hair pulled up into a messy bun, deep wrinkles around her eyes that give impressions of sleepless nights without relaxation. Her red stethoscope lies around her neck and obscures her nametag. Her dark blue scrubs contrasts with the pristine, obviously-ironed white of her coat. Cass is dimly aware that the doctor is asking another question, so she snaps back to attention.

“Can you move anything besides your head?”  


Cass tries to move her arm. No dice. She receives the same results with other attempts to move her limbs, and then resigns to shaking her head. She feels the uncomfortable grief start to settle in her chest again, threatening to bubble to the surface in the form of tears and blubbering. But Bruce is sitting right there, and he reaches out to take her hand, knowing full well she won’t at all receive the sensation of his physical comfort. She sees him stroke his thumb across the back of her hand. She relishes in the figurative alleviation.

“Unsurprising,” the doctor says bluntly, and Bruce blinks. She produces a folder from her coat. She licks her index finger and opens the manila folder, shuffling around in certain pages in Cass’s file. Bruce’s eyes follow her movements seemingly with distrust, but he refrains from commenting on anything. Eventually, the doctor moves over to a lightbox mounted on the wall and pins up several x-rays. “Here, we have several angles of Miss Cain’s neck.”  


Cass hears Bruce mumble, “We get that,” under his breath, but doesn’t call him out on it. Something squeezes her throat when she stares at the x-rays of her own body, seemingly unable to process it. To anyone, it would be painfully clear what went wrong. But her brain can’t seem to make the connection between the spine and her.

“As you can see,” the doctor begins, using her blue ballpoint pen as a pointer, “Miss Cain has injured her upper neck -- specifically, the C4 vertebrae. It’s shattered. As a result...” She shifts, moving around to another x-ray that is closer to Cass’s neck than the others, “...her spinal cord has been crushed, resulting in her current state of quadriplegia.  


“i’m going to be very honest with you, kid,” she continues. “It doesn’t look good. You’ve lost all movement and sensation in all four limbs, and you can move so far as your shoulders. Your sympathetic nervous system has been compromised, which means you have the possibility of having high blood pressure in the future. As you can imagine, Mr. Wayne here will have to invest in a wheelchair, since you have no insurance, and you’ll have to be helped around all day, twenty-four seven.”  


“Doctor Thompson,” Bruce says sharply, “when Doctor Thompkins recommended you, I was under the impression that you would be _helpful_.” Cass blinks, but doesn’t look at him. He tenses in her periphery.  


Thompson shoots him a sour look. “But,” she drawls, pointedly glaring at him, “you do retain movement in your head and neck. The only reason we have you in a brace right now is so that you don’t exacerbate the damage done to your spinal cord while you adjust to your condition.” Bruce glares at her some more, and Cass pretends that she doesn’t notice. “There is also the possibility of recovery through physical therapy. I cannot and will not promise a _full_ recovery, but you may regain sensation and even movement over time. Do either of you have any questions?”

Cass blinks. She still has difficulty seeing the x-ray as being her own body. If she does have any questions, they’ll come later, when she’s ready to think about consequences and the future. For now, she shakes her head. “No,” she mumbles, nearly recoiling at how terrible she sounds. Suitable to a few-days-long coma, but still disconcerting.

Dr. Thompson’s gaze shifts over to Bruce, who says, “I don’t have any at the moment, but I’ll be sure to... contact you if any arise.”

“I should... give you two some space to talk,” Thompson says, and marches out the door. Her heels clack as she disappears down the corridor, and once she’s gone, Bruce loosens from his tense posture, blowing out a heavy sigh.  


“one would think her bedside manner needs some work,” he says dryly. Cass agrees, but doesn’t say anything. She’s too tired for humor. He takes her hand again, and she sees that he applies some pressure to his hold, then relaxes. “How are you feeling?”  


“Bad,” she croaks, and feels her eyes water again. He leans over and brushes her hair from her forehead, letting his hand linger on the top of her head. “Not good. Not hurt, but...”  


“I understand,” he whispers, but she doesn’t really think he does. He sympathizes, sure, but he doesn’t understand. She recalls that he’d had an incident once as well, with his spine, but she’s sure it was nothing like this scale. But at the very least, Bruce is trying -- and he’s here, which is more than she can say for her girlfriend. She forces herself not to feel too bitter, but she doesn’t feel like it’s working. She doesn’t even know what time it is. “I’m here for you.”  


Of course he is. She knows he would be, somewhere deep down. Beyond her fear and frenzy at the jarring turn of evens that brought her here, something inside of her knew that Bruce would be there at the end of the day. And he hadn’t disappointed her. Somehow, she knew that he would be the one she woke up to, had hoped that he would in fact surpass David Cain again in this respect. She was right. It felt good to know that she had been correct about something at least once in the last twelve hours she’d been conscious.

“Where’s Steph?” she asks, because she has to know.  


Bruce leans back, still holding her hand. His brows turn upwards slightly but he doesn’t quite frown. His blue eyes are illuminated by the fluorescent lights of the hospital, and they’re bloodshot. He’s been waiting for her for quite some time. “She went home a few hours ago,” he tells her, and Cass can’t discern whether or not he’s lying. “You’ve been here for three days, and you barely woke up. She was here for hours, but I told her to go home.” At her stricken expression, he adds, “But I’m sure she’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Cass says softly.  


“Cassandra,” Bruce murmurs, and she turns her head to look at him full on. He presses his lips together, eyes flicking from the hand he’s holding back to her eyes. “Are you okay? Do you... do you want me to leave you alone for a bit?”  


She lets her eyes flutter shut, feels Bruce shift. He waits a solid twenty seconds before getting up, and she snaps her eyes open. “Wait,” she croaks, but Bruce hasn’t even moved beyond standing instead of sitting, frozen in surprise by her jerky movement. “Don’t go. Please. Don’t go.”

He sits back down without hesitation, hooking a leg around one of the chair’s legs and scooting forward. The only sound that fills the space between them is the steady beeping of the heart monitor, and the creak of plastic as Bruce leans forward and places his elbows on the bed beside her, causing the mattress to squeak, not quite protesting. “As long as you need me, even if it’s forever,” Bruce tells her quietly. “I’ll be here.”

She nods haltingly, and closes her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass copes.

Cass prides herself on being cooperative. Despite being a loner and having been a loner since a very young age, she was still conditioned since childhood to follow orders and to obey. So it stands to reason that she should be improving, because she’s doing everything the therapist has been telling her to do.

Every morning, she gets up at eight, because although everything else seems to be uncooperative, her mental faculties and internal clock seem to be in tip-top shape, and gets whisked down by Alfred to the front door to greet her therapist. Thankfully, it isn’t Dr. Thompson but someone of a more charming variety. He’s young -- younger than she thought one in his profession would be, anyway. Kind, always smiling. It’s a reassuring thing, to see his enthusiasm and goodwill. It boosts her confidence. There might actually be a chance that she can recover.

It has only been a week. There’s still time, she tells herself. Patience is a virtue. Though improvement hasn’t quite shown its head, it’s not supposed to be something that rises simply by the thought of effort alone.

Were it not for Rosario, who looks like he’s hardly over twenty-four, Cass is sure that she’d feel a thousand times more subconscious about her therapy. There’s only so many times a girl can have someone kneeling between her legs and have their large hands on her thighs, winding her legs and moving them back and forth to increase circulation and restore muscle memory. The exercises fall into a steady routine, and she’s no longer surprised at movements she was not prepared for. The easy familiarity about him allows her to be lulled into a false sense of comfort.

Even getting used to the wheelchair isn’t an easy task. There are so many times she wants to lean forward and grab something, only for the rest of her body to not respond, and sometimes she has difficulty deciding just what a ‘hard’ puff is -- as a generally soft-spoken person, the distinction can be sometimes blurred, for both her and the device. Sometimes the straw is a little disruptive. It sticks in her face sometimes when she isn’t particularly focused on its location, and she hopes there’s not a spot on her cheek demonstrating just how many times she’s whipped her head around only for it to press into her flesh harder than intended.

She tries not to do the head-whipping very much, at least. For her neck’s sake, if nothing else.

So a week. Seven days. Sunday through Saturday, one hundred sixty-eight hours. When put that way, it doesn’t seem like a very long time, which is comforting in the face of her frustration. She just wants to get better so she can get back to her job. She sees them bouncing about every night through the window, shapes dashing across the black sky.

Occasionally, they’ll give her a pat on the shoulder before they leave. She overheard Duke scolding Tim, stating that it had been something of a patronizing gesture. She couldn’t find it in herself to agree or disagree. Regardless, they go on without her, fighting crime and taking names. She worried that Steph will be on her own, but Bruce reassures her that he’s taken two shifts to makeup for the lapse. It wouldn’t be the first time that she’s been left behind.

It must be because it’s a Monday that she’s having all these dreary, negative thoughts. The resolution to staunch such thoughts forms in her head, but she never actually gets to put it into motion as Alfred opens the door to let Rosario in. He grins brightly at her, his teeth overwhelmingly white as they always are, but she can’t bring herself to smile back. It’s just not that kind of day.

“Feeling a little down?” Rosario would always ask on days like this, as if he was incapable of reading Cass’s expression. She generally likes him, but there’s always that little apprehension around new people. As far as she knows, he’s completely ignorant of her actual occupation, and so automatically, there will have to be dishonesty in the way that she interacts with him.

He’d already been a little suspicious about her at their first session, upon which he marveled at her physicality with interest. “Wow, you used to work out, didn’t you?” he had cheerily asked, in that almost monotonous tone of overbearing tolerance. She was lucky that a simple nod had placated him, but she knew that she had to be careful. It seemed Bruce hadn’t looked into getting someone trustworthy to guard their secret and get her back on her feet.

Or, simply put, he wasn’t expecting her to get back on her feet as all.

Why else would he put so little stock into her recovery? If he’d found a physical therapist who was more suited to treating people of their physiology, more fine-tuned to a vigilante’s body than a regular person’s physique, it’d have been obvious that he was dedicating as much as he could to getting her back on the streets. It would be a symbol of his dedication to her recovery, a desire to have her continue the fight she had so stupidly torn away from herself.

But she was stuck with someone whose smiles did more than their work. She appreciated the verve and optimism -- she really did! At times, it could be grating, but one of the first steps to success is positivity. Which makes it all the more frustrating that nothing is getting done.

“Particularly dirty spot on the wall, Miss Cain?” Alfred teases, and only after he speaks does she realize that she’s scowling at nothing. Yep, it’s a Monday-thing, all right.

She cranes her head as she watches him step around her and her bulking chair to head toward the door, feather-duster still in hand. She moves quickly to catch up, and waits patiently by the hat rack, watching the stained glass for a familiar approaching shape. Routine, routine, routine. Makes it harder for her to wallow in self-pity like she occasionally does. After all, the living embodiment of Candide’s worst nightmare is about to slap her in the face as soon as Alfred opens the door.

She wheels herself slightly backward when Alfred twists the knob and pulls the door open, blinking at the brightness that envelops Rosario like an ironic, poorly-timed angel. He’s already smiling, a grin so wide that his eyes are reduced into squints. Cass tries to smile back, but she knows whatever genuine smile she can muster will never match up to what Rosario has to offer every single day. She knows Bruce has offered to allow him to stay at Wayne Manor, but Rosario had refused, which was good. It would’ve been too dangerous -- he would’ve found out about them sooner or later if that had been the case.

“And how are you?” Rosario chirps, an extra kick in his step as he crosses the threshold. Alfred excuses himself quietly and politely and backs into the foyer to continue dusting the old grandfather clock, while Cass putters after Rosario as they head into the gym.

He apparently doesn’t seem at all fazed when she simply can’t bring herself to respond.

He helps her slide out of her chair and onto the floor, stretching out a mat underneath her as he settles on his knees. His black tank top clings to his shirt, sweaty already from Gotham’s humidity. The city may be prone to cold in winter and early spring, but when summer and early fall hit, the heat would cling desperately onto anything it could find -- inanimate objects and living creatures alike. As far as she knows, and she knows a lot since he likes to talk a lot, he’s not a native to the city, but he seems to be acclimating well.

Part of her wonders why Bruce picked him of all people to be the one treating her, but there’s no point in pondering something that’s already done. Cass relaxes at Rosario’s prompting, letting her head rest on the teal PVC. They start off with loosening up her joints. He rolls her foot in a circular motion, testing the stiffness before settling on a slow pace. It slowly becomes more amenable to movement, so he switches to her other foot.

“Pretty hot outside,” he comments. Rosario holds up a finger and reaches into his backpack, taking out a white towel and wiping his forehead and arms. “Sorry, I was pretty clammy.” She decides not to comment on the other stains on the towel, instead shrugging lightly.

He returns, grip dryer now and obviously so as her skin doesn’t slide against his so easily, and his fingers look more firmly pressed to her feet. He switches from rolling her foot to stretching her leg. His hands move from the sole to her thigh and the other migrates to her calf, and he begins pushing back slightly to make a ninety degree angle with her leg. They fall into a quiet, but Cass can’t decide whether or not this silence is uncomfortable. **  
**

She doesn’t watch him as he works, instead looking back up to the ceiling. The gym used to be her favorite part of the manor, separate from the training partition of the cave, and something created rather to impress reporters with Bruce Wayne’s purported Adrian-Veidt level workout regimen. It was different from the rest of the rooms in the manor, which had a sort of archaic, aristocratic look of polished wood and looming bookshelves.

Rather, the gym was almost futuristic, full of whites and grays and fluorescent lights that dangled on thick cables, workout equipment placed throughout the room. She could attest that Bruce seldom used the equipment, but had fiddled around with them to make them appear used. Except now there was a space cleared out -- the elliptical and treadmill were moved aside so that there would be an open space near the door for her and Rosario. It’s a neat little spot, but wide enough to allow them to move in any variety of angles.

“Are you in any pain?” Rosario asks. Once she had it bad, almost driving her to tears. Most days she wishes she could feel something, but when it happened, she wasn’t prepared. A searing flame that felt like she was being burnt alive, it shocked and hurt her that she was almost brought to tears. But she supposes her uncharacteristic silence is what sets him off and makes him ask.

Rather than tottering in misery, Cass had took it upon herself to resume her vocal lessons with Alfred. “Nowhere to run,” she had joked, but Alfred hadn’t looked nearly as amused. She spoke far more often than she used to, now having to ask for things instead of going to do it herself. With this apparent helplessness, she’d found a way to hone a skill. Cass also talked a lot to Rosario, though most of the conversation was in one ear and out the other.

It made it easier for her to relax her vocal muscles and the muscles of her limbs at the same time. It was only day eight, so clearly he was unaccustomed to her reticence. “No,” she tells him, making sure to tack on a reassuring smile when he looks up at her.

He moves onto her other leg, and she allows her thoughts to drift again. There’s nothing much to think about when she can virtually do nothing herself. She doesn’t watch the news or TV in general because she doesn’t want to bother Alfred for the remote, and she hasn’t quite gotten a hang of using the mouth stick yet. Rather, the only things she ever gets to learn from the outside world are offhanded mentions from any of the boys, or from certain key words she’ll pick up from Rosario’s droning.

Tim and Duke have taken to talking politics, but Cass hasn’t got a head for them. She agrees often with what they say, and blanches often at the antics of some particular politicians, but refrains from commenting on what she doesn’t know. It’s not as if she has vocabulary for it anyway, besides, ‘They sound bad.’ She doesn’t offer the words, knowing they’ll make her sound stupid.

It’s easier to speak about menial things with Rosario, she learns, because it doesn’t require any particular thought. Today, though, she was having difficulty keeping up with the excited man, mostly because she hadn’t been listening to the beginning of his particular diatribe, and so had no idea how he’d gotten to the mechanics of creating carbon fiber.

“Rosario,” she says, startling him in the middle of an arm exercise, making him look up at her with wide eyes, “do you think I’m going to get better?”

“It’s only been a week, Cassie,” he says, because she’s too shy to correct his nickname for her, “you’ll have to wait a lot longer for any sort of improvement to show. Months, maybe years even. These things take a long time, but it’s possible! I’ve seen people get crushed by cars or shot in the spine get up and start walking again. You never know!”

“But what about me?” Cass insists. “Do you think I’ll get better? I don’t want to... to inconvenience anyone any more than I already have.”

“Oh, Cassie, you could never be an inconvenience.” His exaggerated smile twists into a look of sympathy. Something cold shoots up the back of her neck, but she doesn’t let any alarm show. She’s not sure where it came from. “Everyone here is helping you because they want to help you. Alfred helps you because he loves you. I’m helping you because I want to get paid -- but also because I want to help people, of course. It makes no difference to them, me, if you’d lost just your legs or only the right half of your body. Everyone that’s helping you would work day and night to help get you back in tip-top shape, and it’s actually rather demeaning for you to reduce their hard work and motivations like that.”

She pauses, thinking his words over. Her cheeks warm at the slight chastisement. “You’re right,” she admits, smiling tentatively. “Thanks, Rosario.”

“Oh,” he says, continuing to move her locked arms in a rowing motion, pushing back and forth from their chests from a kneeling position in front of her, “and as for if I think you’ll get better? Of course you will, Cassandra. Of course you will.” His grin threatens to split his face.

* * *

Usually after physical therapy, Alfred starts articulation lessons. Cass wouldn’t have figured him to be a qualified speech therapist (and, by all accounts, he probably isn’t), but she suspects he gets his teachings from the manor’s expansive library and the internet anyway. However, as she sits patiently in the living room beside the duvet, he pops his head and says that the day’s lesson is canceled. She has a visitor.

Her brows raise. It isn’t an uncommon occurrence, Tim often popping by during lunch to say hi and hang out, but she can’t hear his voice at all. In fact, the only thing she can pick up after Alfred leaves is the older man’s tones, explaining something quietly to whoever it was that came. She waits, hearing the approach of footsteps. Rather unfamiliar -- she’s heard them before, she thinks, but not enough to place the person.

Alfred’s footsteps cease and the other’s continue, the door opening with a click. She raises her eyes -- he’s taller than the butler, but not by much. It doesn’t so much as startle her but surprise her. Dick Grayson, offering a sheepish grin and a bouquet of flowers. “Can I come in?” he asks, and she nods quickly.

It is strange, or so she thinks, that he of all people would be one of the first to come. They had little contact with each other, even after his return from Spyral. Regardless, she’s grateful for the company. Her eyes fall to the bouquet, taking in the daisies, peonies, and hydrangeas, all in varying shades of gold. She wonders if they were chosen because he understood the language, or if he asked the florist for the best ‘get well soon’ bouquet they could come up with.

His hand tightens on the stems of the flowers, the muscles in his forearm straining beneath his sweatshirt. He’s locked between the awkwardness of the ensuing noiselessness and the subsequent reflex to twirl whatever’s in his hand like a baton. He holds them out to her, then, remembering his lapse, moves to place them in her lap. She looks down at him, the corners of her lips threatening to twitch upwards. “Thank you,” she tells him, and he responds just as easily, “Of course.”

Alfred returns to the living room carrying a glass vase, filled half full with water. He ducks between them without a word and plucks the bouquet from Cass’s lap and puts it into the vase. Dick watches him leave, hands fidgeting into his pockets. She can’t blame him for being nervous, or weirded out. They’re acquaintances at best, tentative friends if by virtue of being Batman’s allies.

“You doing all right?” he asks. She’s never really considered being alone with him. Most of what she new of him was second hand, but there was something comforting about him, a mixture of paternal and fraternal. He sits on the duvet next to her, his brows pulled together. She searches his eyes for pity, but doesn’t find any -- surprising, and rather refreshing. “I’ve… seen what a nasty break can look like. In Haley’s.”

She raises her brows. Of course, he was in a circus. Hadn’t been in it all too long, since he was eight when he left, but she’s sure that there were varying experiences that differed from the norm in the company of performers. His family was a group of trapeze artists, and there must’ve been others that worked with similar dangers. Of course, he’d probably seen a case similar to hers. So he knows that sympathy does nothing. “I’m fine,” she says, and for once, she’s not saying it through her teeth. “Thank you.” **  
**

He reaches out and pats her shoulder, squeezing the junction between her neck and shoulder gently. She relishes the sensation, leaning back slightly into his hand. They haven’t seen each other often, not since he returned from his faked death, and now she’s gone and done this so there’ll be an even lesser chance of her seeing him on patrol with the others. But it meant a lot to her that he was visiting like this. Just Cass and Dick, sitting in the living room together. Alfred pattering in the kitchen, probably making some snacks for the two of them. It surprised her how easily the older man had taken to feeding her. Perhaps it was some lingering nostalgia of raising Bruce.

There’s still so much that she doesn’t quite know about the family. Even with her affiliation with Barbara, there remain secrets between them. She thinks of them as family, and they try to be as close as that, but there’s always going to be that sort of distance, that sense of ‘outsider’-ship that clouds her interactions with them. None of that exists between her and Dick. He’s gregarious, not to Rosario’s nearly nauseating extent, but friendly enough to ooze acceptance and kindness.

His easy-going smile and attentiveness reminds her of what it was like to talk to Steph, but she pushes the thought out of her head. It was rude to be thinking of someone else when a person was talking to you, anyway. He even offered to feed Cass when Alfred placed a plate of cookies down, shooing off Alfred’s protests with expert ease. Dick’s word clearly pulled some weight around the Manor.

In the hour that he’s there, they talk about everything and nothing. It’s so nonsensical that she can’t even believe it’s an hour-long conversation. He recalls stories of the people of Haley’s Circus getting hurt, their different injuries and how they overcame. It’s a bit of a heavy topic, with his uncle’s shattered hip and ribs, and a trainer nearly getting mauled by her tiger. He figures out quickly that her listening doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s taking it as encouragement, nor that she’s feeling better, so he changes topic quickly.

He tells her that since he’s been back, he and Bruce have been pulling double shifts to help Steph out, but reminds her that this might not be permanent when her face falls. “You’ll be back,” he says with so much conviction she actually might believe him. “Then you can do… whatever couples do when they’re on patrol.” She arches a brow, reminding him of Barbara.

“We didn’t…,” he says, “shush.” They share a laugh, and just like that, she’s made a new friend. He shares some anecdotes about Gotham Academy, but she fails to mention that she hasn’t been able to register for the year. Maybe won’t even do it next year. The idea of going to a new school startled her, but now with the addendum of needing 24/7 assistance, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to go through with public schooling at all.

Alfred told her constantly not to think of herself as a burden, but there was clearly a tiredness about him, now that he had to constantly cater to her needs. Cass had tried to ask Bruce to get someone else to help, but Alfred had insisted that he was all right. She certainly couldn’t ask him to come to school with her, and she couldn’t exactly drag anyone else out of their classes in order to help her around. After all, even geniuses could be homeschooled.

Either way, it’s revitalizing to have contact with someone new. She wishes he could stay forever, but he doesn’t. He leaves with a pat on the shoulder, reassuring and pleasant. Cass decides that she’d like him to visit more -- especially since his schedule now permits it.

* * *

Bruce enters the room with little to no preamble, nodding to Alfred as the older man departs, blanket pulled safely up to Cassandra’s chin. It’s thin enough that it won’t overheat too much, but just enough to protect her from any colds that might plague her through the summer night. Bruce takes a seat by her bedside, hands clasped in his lap.

He sighs heavily, almost deflating with the motion. His shoulders no longer hold their rigidity, but the rapidity of his blinking and the shifting focus of his eyes signify an adrenaline high he’s slowly coming down from. They don’t say anything to each other for a while, instead locking eyes and letting the tiredness they both feel speak for them. “I hear Dick came to visit,” Bruce says quietly. “Shame he couldn’t stay for dinner.”

Cass shrugs. “Shame. But he was nice. Talked a lot. Made me feel better.”

His lips twitch. “He does have a way with doing that.” A number of voices appear in the hallway -- she presumes the younger, high-pitched voice belongs to Damian, and the other to Duke or Tim. Bruce pauses to listen, then turns back to her as they pass. “I’m sure plenty of people have asked you how you’ve been, so I won’t do that. I will, however, ask if there’s anything I can do for you. I know, it’s only been a week, but if there’s anything you need changed, I can fix something up. New chair? Rosario too damn cheerful for eight in the morning?”

She shakes her head, letting out a little laugh. “It’s only been a week,” she repeats. “I’m still adjusting. But nothing is bad.” Nothing she nor he can help, anyway. “I guess… I would appreciate it. If more people came. To talk. Dick came. Rosario always comes. Maybe… maybe some other visitors would be nice.” Steph had only come once in the entire week that she’d been under medically-imposed house arrest. But Cass had known for certain that Steph was still patrolling -- Bruce would’ve said as much if she wasn’t. She still worries about Steph being out there alone. If she feels uncomfortable talking about Cass’s new mode of being, she could always just talk about her nocturnal encounters with Gotham’s criminals. Just anything to see her again. **  
**

That time that she had visited was entirely too awkward for Cassandra’s tastes. They used to be so close -- or, at least, what Cass considered was close. They shared everything together. Steph held her hand and smiled, but there was a weariness and wariness to her that Cass didn’t like. Like Steph wasn’t quite sure how to react. Maybe she just needed time to adjust, too. Cass wouldn’t blame her if that was the case.

“I’ll see what I can do about that,” Bruce says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. She always thought it was a grandfatherly gesture to him, but she doesn’t comment, instead pressing her lips together. He looks like he’s already compiling a list of people he can coerce into visiting her.

She shakes her head. “You don’t have to. Just a suggestion. You can’t force people to come.” The expression on his face implies that he could, but she shakes her head firmly again. “If someone is coming to see me, I want it to be real. Because they want to. Not because you threatened them.” Bruce nods in response, and they fall into another silence. It’s easy like that between them. It’s never awkward. They know how to speak without saying anything.

“Just focus on getting better, okay?” Bruce eventually says, squeezing her knee as he rises. She notices him wince minutely, his other hand going back surreptitiously to rub at his back. It can’t be old age catching up to him, and she also notes a splatter of fresh bruises peeking from his sleeves. Cass can only imagine it extends to his back and ribs. He’s showing difficulty breathing, so he might’ve fractured something in his chest tonight on patrol. She frowns. He ought to be more careful. “Good night, Cass.”

“Good night,” she responds, and watches him without blinking until he leaves and shuts the door behind her. It closes with a gentle click, but after his shadow moves away from the door, another approaches it. Cass doesn’t close her eyes, instead focusing deeply on the two shadows of feet that stretch across the wooden floor. She hears some murmuring outside but isn’t close enough to discern the words -- it’s someone feminine, and then presumably Bruce responding. **  
**

It sounds terse, but she doesn’t feel like jumping to conclusions. It’s probably just Bruce’s tiredness speaking for him. Still, she wonders who the other voice is. It’s hushed, but quite obviously not any of the boys, and it lingers outside the door even when the thump of Bruce’s heavy footsteps fades into nothingness.

Barbara? After all, Dick had visited her earlier that day, offering words of encouragement. It figured that someone who had actually lived through half of what she was facing would be the one who would come see her. Why so late at night, she wasn’t quite sure, but one could never be too curious with the Bat’s family. Sometimes seeking too many answers led to too many bad memories. The family had enough of those.

Even as she thinks, the shadow lingers at the door, not moving an inch. The person on the other side of the wood is contemplating whether or not they should enter. Cass really wishes they would; she’d very much like to get whatever they were going to say over with and then head off to sleep like she’d intended before this little fright had so deeply interrupted her. “Hello?” Cass calls out, and the shadow jumps.

Light footsteps sound off as it vanishes, heading down the opposite wall. Cass inhales deeply, sighing as she leans back into her pillows and closes her eyes. As she drifts off to sleep, she thinks she smells the light hint of lavender and cinnamon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass learns.

Cass begins to think she’s losing her touch when she fails to notice a shift in the monotony surrounding her three month into said shifts. Perhaps it’s because she’s too focused on what she deems to be important -- namely, her recovery -- to notice the routes they are taking to get to that supposed location. She’s too sucked up into the idea of getting better that she hardly even notices that the formerly four hour sessions are getting shorter each time, and she almost never leaves her chair during them. She figures the insistence on her having to learn how to use the mouth-stick better is simply because it’ll be more convenient for her everyday life before she recuperates.

Rosario certainly never seems any dimmer, though he’s always in a bit of a hurry every time he’s over. He blinks once in surprise (the only other emotion Cass has ever seen him express besides happiness) when she congratulates him on netting other clients, but otherwise doesn’t say anything. Rather, he works diligently on loosening her joints, and promptly leaves before noon, exclaiming his well-wishes before slamming the door shut behind him. There’s always been something a little peculiar about him, though, so Cass never bothers to look into it.

She supposes it’s the fact that she’s been too comforted to realize that something is changing, but by the time she does, it fully hits her. No matter what Bruce might say in support for her recovery, it looks like it’s not happening. She no longer gets out her chair to do exercises because they highly doubt she’ll be getting out of her chair ever. Once in awhile, Rosario will do some leg exercises, but they’re always simple and never quite looking like they’re pushing for recovery but rather an exercise for the sake of exercise. A habit to keep performing. A placebo.

They don’t expect anything better from her. It’s one thing to give up, but it’s something else to lose faith in a person who still has hope. That person’s hope isn’t enough. That’s the only explanation she can come up with -- she hasn’t tried hard enough, hasn’t worked hard enough to show any reasonable progress and that’s the reason why she isn’t recovering. Why she only shrugs at the most, maybe lifting her arm with the sheer force of the movement of her shoulders. It has to be her fault; there’s no other way. Everyone else has worked so hard, tried their best, so it stands to reason that something has to be wrong with her, the one person who was supposed to bring forth the fruit of their creations.

It’s a little distressing, she has to admit. She vacillates between dwelling on the fact and ignoring it entirely, but it’s uncertain whether either course of action is actually helping any. At the very least, Cass wants to do something. Help out a little.

Despite her newfound knowledge, she tries not to let it show too much. Just because she realizes that things are different now, that the objective has changed, doesn’t mean that she’s just going to throw away all the effort she’s put into becoming better. After all, it’d be just as much of a waste to her as it is to the others. She might not have put enough effort into her recovery, but she sure as hell put a lot regardless.

Even if you don’t believe in something, pretending is the best way to mask your distaste and disappointment. Better to play the optimist than to degrade it -- and herself -- in front of everyone else. Cass has always been a realist, verging on pessimist, anyways. Always considering the possibility of failure, mapping exit strategies and plans b through z in her head. The only time it mattered, it hadn’t crossed her mind. But she was living with the consequences, had been living for months. So there was congratulations to be had there. She could try to swing over to the other side of the spectrum.

In fact, the reason part of the mansion had been cleaned up was because of the party Bruce was throwing in celebration. Cass couldn’t even blame him for making her do something she didn’t want to, because when he brought up the idea of a get together, she’d agreed before the thought had fully processed in her head. Though suited to being alone, as was her wont, the idea of people coming by in a large group felt more comforting than it probably would’ve been in any other circumstance. So the matter was taken out of her hands the moment she’d nodded.

She disliked the fact that it gave Alfred more work, forcing him to clean up the living room for a get together of at maximum eight people, and the fact that it meant that a meal would have to be prepared, drinks possibly served. He’d waved off her concerns with a simple, “Anything for you, Miss Cassandra,” and had promptly set about with a mop. It made her stomach churn. It should’ve been her with the mop, or with a feather duster, or hedgeclippers to make the outside of the mansion just as presentable as the inside.

Cass thought it would take her some time to convince Rosario to help Alfred out, but the physical therapist had leapt up at the chance, chirping that he’d take care of the living room so Alfred could get started on the dinner. He politely declined attending when Cass invited him, but didn’t hesitate to offer assistance in preparing the Manor for the arrival of six other non-strangers in about eight hours.

“Sounds like it’ll be a lot of fun,” Rosario says, fluffing one of the pillows on the sofa. He looks a little funny in his bright neon tracksuit and long hair pulled up in a bun, hunched over antique furniture, a comically severe grin on his face. He looks like he’s enjoying his task far too much, and part of Cass wonders if it’s because he’s tired of dealing with her. He doesn’t comment on it, but he wouldn’t be the type to do so anyway. Rosario’s far from the consummate professional, but he’s also one to hide his displeasure from others, she notes. The closest he gets to actual subterfuge is not confirming nor denying certain things.

Every time he lies by omission, he tries to smile wider than he already does. His eyes turn into squints, almost like he’s trying to avoid looking at anyone, especially her. This little quirk has never appeared before, not when he had been spewing reassurances about her recovery, so she figures the lost hope is something new. No matter how much he tells her of his life and experiences, though, and he has a great deal of many, she never actually deciphers much about the man himself. He knows how to keep himself friendly and detached, so maybe that’s why it doesn’t hurt as much as Bruce losing faith in her. She wishes she had such a power.

Alfred peeks in once in awhile to check on their progress, and seems mildly surprised by the apparent cleanliness at which Rosario keeps up his work. The therapist responds to Alfred’s surprise with a sheepish grin and an admission that he’s actually a bit of a neat freak, absent-mindedly scratching the back of his head. Alfred smiles back wryly and suggests that they perhaps move on to the labyrinth of hallways and bedrooms, if they were seeking to be helpful.

Cass isn’t quite sure what he means by ‘them’ being helpful, considering all she was capable of doing was craning her neck to watch Rosario work. All that she’s been this whole time is a casual observer. Alfred’s lips twitch when she brings this up to him, protesting any sort of assistance he may attribute to her.

“Look out for any spots he might’ve missed. Help out a little,” Alfred trills, and heads back to the kitchen to continue preparing what smells like turkey.

Rosario laughs, then moves to take the handles of her wheelchair. She tilts her head back slightly to look at him, unsurprised to find another face splitting grin sitting on his visage. “I could use the extra help.”

‘Help.’ The word seems alien to her, but it shouldn’t. Despite the loss of tactility below her shoulders, she still possessed her other senses. Hearing, able to decipher the pots and pans Alfred is using by their specific clang, smell, to sniff out the thyme and mint lying on the kitchen counter, taste, still holding onto the pancakes she had for breakfast, and sight, to see that Rosario had forgotten to wipe down the sides of the fireplace. She clears her throat and jerks her chin towards the leftover dust.

Rosario lets out a little ‘Ah!’ and goes over with the feather duster. When he’s done, he tosses her a little smarmy smirk. “See? Help.”

Cass finds herself smiling back, shoulders drooping in relaxation. It might not be a lot, but it’s still something to do. Some way to help. “Okay. Eagle eyes.”

* * *

Barbara’s the first to actually come up to her and sit next to her, plastic plate and utensils and all. Alfred continues to feed Cass, but otherwise the family is off to the side catching up with each other. It’s ironic, considering the whole gathering was meant to comfort Cassandra, a point that Barbara brings up with a laugh. Neither of them look at each other, sitting ramrod straight and watching the brightness of the fireplace. Alfred gives no impression of eavesdropping, form loose and eyes focused elsewhere despite his current duties. **  
**

“It’s summer,” Barbara says after a bit. “We don’t really need this fire, do we?”

“No,” Cass responds. “But it’s gas, so.” Like that made the crackling heat justifiable. 

Barbara laughs again at that. She falls silent soon after, the joke not quite holding its weight. Cass can do better. She’s not even sure if it is a joke. And she’s also not quite sure how to interact with Barbara now. She saw in Cass the potential to be yet another protector of Gotham. An extension of the Bat’s family, among the many in Gotham’s streets who sought to protect the city from harm. She and Steph had been specifically sought out. And now the potential Barbara saw must’ve been completely eliminated.

After all, Barbara had recovered. After her injury at the Joker’s hands, she had overcome the trials and tribulations put in her way and had reclaimed the mantle of Batgirl, still Gotham’s protector. Cassandra had it worse, in medical terms, at least. While Barbara had lost the usage of her legs, Cass had lost both arms and legs, meaning that she was, effectively, helpless.

Most days she tries not to think of herself like that. She wouldn’t let this disability define her, wouldn’t let the needs that she required as a result of her quadriplegia be the only things to chain her to life. After all, even with it, she was able to help earlier today. Rosario had made a total of twenty-four mistakes, and Cass willfully believes that none of them were on purpose. She was still Cassandra Cain, Orphan. Just out of commission. But she was still strong, still full of vigor. Full of life and wanting to enjoy it, no matter the restrictions placed on her. She would conquer her adversaries, never stop fighting.

“I was like that too,” Barbara tells her, though Cass is absolutely sure she hasn’t spoken aloud. Judging by the lack of attention they’ve aroused, her thought seems to hold water. Instead, it appears that Barbara Gordon is a mind reader. Perhaps Batman’s family did have superpowers after all. “Stuck between remembering and letting go.”

Cass wasn’t quite sure how to bring up the… conflict with the Joker around her, never thought that it might’ve formed a kinship between the two of them. As mentor and mentee, they already shared a rapport. And, of course, the incident that had paralyzed Barbara years ago was something that haunted her to that very day. It never represented all she was to Cass, but there wasn’t really an easy way to breach the subject -- except now Babs has opened the perfect doorway herself.

“Was it hard?” Cass asks. “To decide which one.”

Barbara hums, setting her plate down on the coffee table in front of her. All that’s left on it are a few lentils and kernels of corn, anyway. It’s later into the evening, and Cass knows that Bruce and Damian are about to head out. Fewer ears to listen in on their conversation. “Everything about it was hard,” she admits eventually. “Dealing with the fact that I couldn’t do things I used to, then dealing with what had put me there. The physical strain of getting back on my feet, the times when I thought I wasn’t going to make it out of my chair ever again. Nothing’s going to be easy, Cassandra.”

“I know, but --” **  
**

“There aren’t shortcuts,” Babs continues, not unkindly. “But that doesn’t mean you should lose hope just because everybody else has. I know that your therapist and subsequently Bruce don’t see any future progress coming your way, but that just means you have to prove them wrong.” She smiles, patting Cass’s hand -- a gesture she’s noticed many people resort to when offering comfort.

It’s sound advice, Cass thinks with a small smile. She casts her gaze to her hands, briefly nodding her thanks to Alfred and declining any more food. As the butler shuffles away with several empty plates to the kitchen to wash up, Cass exhales loudly -- not quite enough to draw attention to herself, but enough to expel the exasperation and anxiety in her like a deflating tire. 

She realizes now that she probably should’ve talked to Barbara sooner. The advice of overcoming adversity should’ve been a given, something that everyone was to learn at some point in their life, but it’s different coming from not only someone you respect, but someone who knows you and what you’re going through. There probably would’ve been less wallowing, but Cass refuses to dwell on the past.

“Thank you,” Cass says sincerely, and Barbara smiles at her, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “It means a lot to me.”

It so happens that Barbara stays even after Bruce and Damian leave on patrol. She curls up her feet on the couch, waving goodbye with twirling fingers, and remains there for a good portion of the night. Part of Cass wonders if there’s something she needs to be doing, her own patrol that she’s skipping out on to hang out, but Babs waves away her concerns with reassurances that the network she’s built will more than pick up the slack. “The perks of having been Oracle,” she says with a wink.

The conversation Cass has with Babs is almost the complete opposite of the one she had with Dick. While he had aimlessly wandered through topics and non-sequiturs almost as if to distract her from the ailment that plagued her mind constantly, Barbara nitpicked at it. The hour Cass and Babs had spoken was spent getting to the bottom of her psyche, figuring just what was it about her that convinced her that she wasn’t going to be good enough, that because she was in a wheelchair she was somehow lesser. They worked to find that little voice, the disparaging cries in her head, and with a smile, Barbara told her to prove that voice wrong.

Cass promised that she would, and Cass never breaks promises.

When Barbara looks at the clock, she lets out a low whistle, standing and stretching. “I hadn’t realized I’d been here for so long,” she says with a chuckle. Cassandra wishes she’d stay the night, and when she posits the idea gently, Barbara shakes her head. “I’ve gotta get back home. Take a quick power nap before I make up for my missed shift.” **  
**

Cass blanches. “You told me --”

“I can lie,” Babs snorts. “Don’t worry about it, Cassandra. I’m here for you. Any time you need me.” She leaves with a good sisterly pat on the head, and Alfred comes up behind her to wheel Cassandra away to her bedroom and tuck her in. She doesn’t ask how the butler, who apparently retired twenty minutes ago, knew so suddenly that Cass would need to be put in bed, instead intent on holding Barbara to her promise as well.

“I trust you had a pleasant conversation,” Alfred says, pulling up the blanket and smoothing it out.

“It was…” Cass pauses, searching for the word. Alfred smiles patiently. “Enlightening.”

* * *

Cass supposes that there ought to be no degree of surprise when the likes of her gets random visitors in the dead of night. After all, she used to be a nocturnal creature, at least until there was no point in her staying up past 10 PM. She hopes that it doesn’t mean her senses have dulled in the months she’s been out of commission, but she still startles when a silhouette appears in her window. There’s a little scrabbling noise as the shadow tries to enter, but as the glass swings open and mauve fabric peeks in, she allows herself to relax. **  
**

Spoiler slips into her room almost drunkenly, noiseless and fluid. Cass wishes she could reach out and steady her, but remains solidly in her bed, hands folded neatly as Alfred had placed them. Steph quickly shuts the window, and only after it’s closed does Cass feel the slight shiver of a gust of cold air. The floorboards creak as Steph takes a step towards the four-post bed.

For a moment, everything around them except for the noise of Steph’s movement is silent. The entire house shouldn’t be asleep, especially since, after a perfunctory glance at the clock, Duke and Tim are out on patrol. Perhaps Alfred, but he’s always partially alert just in case they need him for something. Damian’s probably taking a power nap, but it doesn’t take more than a sharp inhale to awaken the boy anyway. Bruce is undoubtedly awake, nursing hot chocolate which he will always claim to be coffee, watching over his two proteges. Hopefully no one thinks the sudden disquiet in Cass’s room is enough to send them running. Her chair might’ve rolled away. Somehow.

Cass listens for a few moments, noting that nothing approaches her room. Satisfied with the privacy they are given, she jerks her chin in a beckoning motion. Almost like an obedient dog, Steph approaches the foot her bed, bumping against the post before moving around to the side. She carefully wedges herself in between the chair and the comforter, moving to walk sideways in order to fit.

“You’re back,” Cass murmurs. Steph nods, blinking drearily, and for a second Cass is afraid she’s gotten a concussion. She wants to reach out for her, examine her for any wounds, but the most she can do is stew in place in the center of her bed. Words of comfort only work when there’s little concern for actual physical injury requiring repair. Steph’s entrance doesn’t give signs of disorientation, but she’s remarkably tired, and her shoulders hang low.

She can’t imagine having to go to Cass’s ‘get-well-soon’ potluck and then pulling a four hour shift is anything that would leave her being extravagantly alert. Bruce has told her time and time again that Nightwing has Spoiler’s back, but there will always be a part of Cass that feels more comfortable knowing that it was Spoiler and Orphan side by side, rather than anyone else, no matter how much she trusts the rest of her pseudo-family.

Even at the get-together, Steph had seemed tired, and Cass can’t help but wonder if it’s to do with her. She assumed that Steph’s distance was because of her desire to throw herself into her work because of the vacancy Spoiler had left behind, and because of how unused she was to having Nightwing as a partner instead. They hadn’t spoken much that night, except for a shared greeting with tentative smiles. Steph had held Cass’s hand briefly, but had to let go in order to continue eating. After she’d finished her dish, she hadn’t resumed the action, but instead drifted off to talk to the others -- Cass caught wind of her discussing a case she and Nightwing were investigating.

She tried not to feel too offended that Steph had simply just walked away.

But then maybe she was staying away because she didn’t know how to be around Cass, didn’t quite get how to interact with her after the accident. It wasn’t as if the contact she’d had with Steph was stiff by any means, but there was still a degree of discomfort, an aversion to change. She could tell Steph was trying not to make it a big deal. And in any case, she was here now.

The most Steph does to undress is slip her hood off and toss it somewhere across the room. Cass hopes that when Alfred comes to rouse her and help her clean up in the morning, he won’t be freaked out by Steph’s sudden appearance. Of course, it probably would’ve been better to let Alfred know that Steph was spending the night in her room, but by the looks of it, the blonde was exhausted enough, and the butler was probably already sound asleep. She had time, they could wait until morning.

It’s the comfort she’d been missing, now finally returned to her. She’s still not quite sure what kept Steph away for so long, but now they were back to their nightly rendezvous, if a bit abridged and featuring a different locale. In the place of her changing daily routine, there was something from her past coming to slip back in. At least, Cass hoped it would last. Steph’s warmth burns hot through the blanket, but no thoughts of a fever spring to Cass’s mind, and she her head instead to bump her nose into Steph’s cheek.

Steph’s hand comes to rest on top of hers, interlacing their fingers, and she squeezes in as best she can on the empty side of the bed. Cass should’ve asked Alfred to have placed her further towards the wall. She attempts to nudge Steph, intending for her to move Cass instead. “More comfortable if you moved in more,” Cass murmurs, and Steph hums into the crook of her neck, not moving.

“Tired?” Cass tries again. 

Steph hums. “You wouldn’t believe the night I had. I’ll tell you in the morning.” There it is. A promise. Steph’s word holding her to appearing in the morning, to being there when Cass woke up so they could gossip. It was a Friday, after all. It wasn’t like Steph had to march off anywhere on the weekend. A conversation with Steph was better than any cartoon a Saturday morning had to offer. 

“What if I want to talk more?”

Steph huffs a little laugh. “We can’t all get what we want, Cass. I swear, tomorrow morning. I will tell you everything. I need sleep.” The ensuing giggle makes Cass’s heart soar. She hadn’t realized just how much she missed the sound until she’d heard it again. A testament to their distance, but also now a reminder of their closeness at this very moment. Steph was back.

Cass nestles as best she can, warmed by anticipation. Though there was the wavering sense of belonging and hope that came with the unanticipated change to her life, there was reinvigoration brought about by Steph’s return. Cass wonders if she’ll be able to fall asleep with the buzzing in her veins at Steph’s proximity.

She has no doubt the position is uncomfortable for her, but Steph’s breathing evens out and her eyes flutter shut. Cass lets her cheek rest against the top of Steph’s head, listening quietly to the ticktock of the clock above her head. She considers nudging her, but it isn’t as if the bad neck Steph’s going to get in the morning is going to be a hindrance. Not when they’re back in each other’s comforting presence.

It doesn’t erase Cass’s earlier loneliness, the fact that Steph wasn’t there to begin with, but it is one step closer to getting better. And getting better is all that Cass has wanted to do since the very beginning.

The closest Steph gets to shifting her position is sliding her legs on top of Cass’s, still dressed in her Spoiler outfit. There’s dirt and grime that’ll get on Cassandra’s thankfully black sheets, but Steph’s warmth settling beside her, the steady rise and fall of her chest, makes it easy enough for Cass’s eyes to close and for her to drift off to sleep too.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass slips.

Cass’s neck feels sweatier than usual when she wakes up, but she realizes that it’s because Steph hasn’t moved at all from the time she fell asleep there until the birds start chirping near the window. It’s a near picturesque, Disney type of awakening -- one Cass definitely isn’t going to complain about.

She doesn’t need to try to stay still, and instead devotes her time to watching Steph rest. From the tiredness she’d exuded hours before, it seemed like repose was well needed. Cass hasn’t been caught up with the comings and goings of the general crime scene in Gotham, focus better spent on her recovery; she feels poorly for having ignored that part of her life that had been so major and so important, and was important to Steph as well. She had been promised a talk when Steph woke up, but she was in no hurry for that to come.

Those dark circles needed taking care of, anyway.

Her attempt at maintaining the peace is shattered by her own gesture of goodwill ten minutes later (she knows, she watched the clock). Steph’s head is turned at a ninety degree angle, nose buried against Cass’s throat. Knowing that her neck’s going to hurt once she wakes up, Cass tries to use her chin and jaw to nudge Steph’s face away, in the process also nudging her awake. Cass freezes as soon as she hears the shift -- a sharp but small inhale, warm, almost wet exhale, and the near imperceptible twitch of a button-nose.

Steph hums low in her throat as she stirs, eyes flicking about under her lids. She slowly opens them, confronted with Cass’s pained, guilty expression. Steph sits up as quickly as she can, which isn’t very, considering her recently-awoken state. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry,” she says, and winces, rubbing her neck. “Did I wake you? Was it my snoring? I know I snore.”

“You don’t,” Cass responds, schooling her features to adopt a mild expression instead. “And I was already awake.”

Steph rubs her eyes, first with her knuckles and then shifting to the heels of her palms. She stretches her arms wide, stifling a yawn. “What time is it?” Her gaze falls to the clock. Steph squints in a manner Cass finds entirely too cute for the hour, and then jumps. “Shit!”

The analog clock reads 10:27, but Cass is more concerned with the way that Steph stumble-falls out of bed. Sure, Cass usually wakes up earlier, even if it is a weekend, but Steph seems to be frazzled by an apparent tardiness. “Is something wrong?” Cass asks, hoping her unease doesn’t bleed too strongly into her words. “Are you… late for something?”

Steph, busying herself with peeling herself out of her costume, stares sheepishly at her toes. “I had… Well, I was going to ask you at dinner, but you spent the whole time talking to Babs so I didn’t have time to get a word in. I was hoping we could spend some time together today -- I mean, the whole day. And I was hoping we’d be out the door by eleven, but that doesn’t look very likely... “ She catches herself, looking into Cass’s eyes with a degree of apprehension that makes Cass’s heart clench. “I mean, that is… if you want to.”

Of course she wants to. Of course. They’ve spent so much time apart, Steph would have to be crazy to even consider the thought that Cass would refuse. And yes, it is true to say that Cass hasn’t so much as left the manor grounds in months, but it wouldn’t be true to say that she’d be unwilling to break this trend just because she spited Steph. She could never spite Steph. It’s probably a weakness, but she refuses to think of her affections as such. They’ve never done anything except make her strong.

And Cass has spent her time cooped up learning the ins and outs of the chair. Though she needs help getting and out of it, maneuvering it around people has become second nature to her. Puffing and sipping come to her even more easily than talking does. The tires of the new car that Bruce acquired have never tasted the streets of Gotham, but now might be a better time than any. That is, if they were going out any distance that required driving.

It was probably better to be dropped off somewhere in the city, though -- Wayne Manor was still a ways off, and the chair wasn’t built with long, reminiscent walks in mind. It had been so easy when she and Steph were able to leisurely make their way into Gotham proper, window shopping and trading words back and forth. Some things had to change, of course.

The pacing would half to differ in their walks, with the chair only going so fast depending on the motions Cass was making, and it was too wide for them to occupy the entire street to themselves without obstructing other pedestrians. And if Cass got tired (she wouldn’t, she knows herself well enough to realize that even if she did start to get fatigued, she’d force herself to keep going), Steph would have to push her along, and then they’d have to get picked up, because wherever they are when they stop, they’re sure as hell not walking all the way back to the manor.

But it isn’t all too bad. Her months indoors have allowed Cass to further study linguistics with Alfred, more than she had before the accident. Her vocabulary expanded massively, and she’d catalogued a list of idiomatic expressions she was eager to throw into any conversation possible. There would no longer be boring variations of awkward, stilted greetings and stock phrases when she and Steph talked, but actual conversation, with depth and thought put into her words. Cass still has a buffer time, something Alfred assures her will decrease in time as she becomes more familiar with stringing words together, but it means that Cass has more to work with in terms of wording. She’s gone beyond basic, despite being far from expert.

Cass realizes she’s spent too much time imagining what might be when she finally catches Steph’s uncertain look. Part of her startles and wonders how long Steph has been watching her like that, and she quickly assuages Steph’s anxiety with a “Sure, of course! I would love to.” She pauses, realizing again that she’s agreed to something without being quite sure of what it entailed. “What exactly are we doing?”

“I was thinking we’d catch a movie,” Steph explains, “but given that I’ve overslept, I don’t think we’ll be able to make the one I have planned… Oh well. And then afterwards, I was hoping that we’d maybe… walk around downtown Gotham for a bit? If you’re up for it.”

“I’m up for anything,” Cass finds herself saying. She knows it’s true, but it’s also a little disconcerting that her reflex is to agree with everything that Steph offers. Maybe it’s a sign of their compatibility, that Cass easily finds herself satisfied with Steph’s ideas. But maybe it’s also a sign that she’s a complete doormat.

She doesn’t want to think about the implications of her words just yet; she hasn’t had breakfast, and Steph slipping off her costume to shimmy into the spare civvies she’s always kept tucked in the back of Cass’s wardrobe is too distracting for her to make any deep self-analyses. Rather, she occupies herself with patiently waiting for Alfred, who seems to waltz into the room on cue.

Steph steps back quickly, almost as if she’s shocked to see the butler enter Cass’s room so nonchalantly. She’s fully dressed, so there’s nothing to be ashamed about, but there’s something in her gaze as she watches Alfred lean over Cass and peek under the blanket. She quickly excuses herself, citing her need to go down to the bathroom and freshen up, and get rid of that kink in her neck while she’s at it.

Cass knows that Steph has zeroed in on the stomach catheter, has noticed that Alfred is in fact helping Cass get ready for the day in ways that go beyond getting her out of the bed. It’s an intimate process, one that can understandably be uncomfortable for others -- she recalls the way Bruce had twitched the first time he’d happened upon them unannounced, but he’d followed it with a graceful apology and gone back to acting as if nothing was amiss. Still, Steph hadn’t been around often. Cass couldn’t blame her for her discomfort.

When Alfred’s done with taking care of her bodily needs, he helps her change out of her bedclothes into a black v-neck and jeans, slipping her feet into sandals. Now and then, Cass still marvels at Alfred’s strength as he hoists her carefully and gently into her chair. Over time, her muscles have lost their definition, softened by a lack of strain combined with semi-regular exercise, but in the beginning of this interdependent relationship, Cass had still bore the muscle-mass befitting of a vigilante, and Alfred had still as easily helped her in and out of the chair. She’s underestimated him this whole time, she had realized, just because of his age. A prejudice she would not ascribe to again.

“I believe I shall go get the car ready,” Alfred says, and departs just as efficiently as he arrived, letting the door hang open behind him so that Cass can exit as well. Just as soon as she passes the doorway, she finds Steph waiting awkwardly by, biting her lip with her hands clasped behind her back.

Cass attempts a smile. “Were you waiting long?”

“No,” Steph says immediately. “I just… wasn’t sure if I should come in.”

“You could’ve come in at any time,” Cass says nonchalantly. It doesn’t seem to have been the right thing to blurt out, though, as Steph blinks and then nods, seemingly shuffling the information carefully away. She shouldn’t have to think about Cass so meticulously like that. They were partners, in the occupational and romantic and general sense. They were open with each other, symbiotic in nature. Steph shouldn’t have to think this hard about how to interact with her.

But Cass isn’t about to think too hard about this herself. It’s only fair that she takes her own advice.

Instead, she says, “Do you think we should stop for some food before we head to the theater? Since we both overslept and are going to miss the movie you planned, it’s only fair that we end up a bit later. I’m a little hungry, I don’t know about you. I guess Alfred also assumed that we’d be getting food outside because he’s getting the car ready. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah,” Steph answers, seemingly relieved by the ease of Cass’s words. “Sure. Remember our old diner? The one by the cinema -- I’ve been itching for some pancakes, anyways.” Just like that, the consternation is gone, replaced by something else that Cass can’t quite place.

* * *

The hostess greets Steph with a cheerful, overly-delighted “Hey, you! I haven’t seen you in a while” and Cass with a faltering “Oh, that’s why.” Cass feels herself tense up slightly at the quick shift in tone, but Steph’s own shock is more exaggerated -- maybe not to the degree that the word ‘exaggeration’ might illustrate, but the clenched fist and slightly grit jaw exude an offense that extends beyond Cass’s own embarrassment.

Regardless, the woman covers up her lapse with a grin whose wattage increases tenfold with every passing second. She leads them to a corner table by the window, and very quickly moves a chair out of the way before they even get close, helping Cass squeeze into the spot and offering Steph a seat adjacent to rather than across from Cass. She places the menus before them, Steph’s closed and Cass’s opened, and promises that someone will return to get their drink orders.

“Well that was… something,” Steph says, tying her hair back into a ponytail. She picks up her menu and rifles through it, stopping to flip between the shakes and juices pages. “Hm…” She looks at Cass over the plastic, apparently watch her scan the only page that’s been opened. “Are you okay? That was kind of rude of her.”

“It’s fine,” Cass says brusquely. “Can you turn the page for me, please?”

Steph does so, looking entirely too sheepish for Cass’s liking. It’s an absolute one-eighty that Steph does, instead doting on Cass and helping her flip through pages while quickly darting back to her own menu to reconfirm her own choices. Before they’d left, Alfred had given Steph a run-down of the duties she now had to perform since Cass had claimed she wouldn’t need him to chaperone for the trip.

“It’s a single-day thing,” she had said, “and you’ve got stuff to take care of at home. Just stay here; we’ll be fine.”

If only she had known that Steph would be overwhelmed by Alfred’s little diatribe. There was a bit of a shocked look on Steph’s face, seemingly startled by the reminder that Cass needed aid with little tasks such as eating and drinking, and as her caretaker, Steph was now to be responsible for her transportation -- making sure that people wouldn’t stumble into Cass by accident, helping her find handicapped locations to sit.

It was evident that the information was new and a bit too much for her to handle on such short notice. Cass couldn’t blame her -- it had taken her some time to get used to Alfred’s furthered omnipresence as well, first born of her naturally independent nature, then by the fact of just how pervasive Alfred’s assistance would be in her life forward. Bruce had attempted to alleviate what he perceived as her getting antsy due to the identity of a singularity by offering to help switch out every once in awhile, but that wasn’t the help that she needed. She had wanted space, needed time to herself. Alfred made sure she was granted that, but it looks as if Steph is having difficulty reconciling with that idea.

She’s uncertain of how far she has to go in order to properly care for Cass. Alfred did admittedly have some troubles too, but he was quick to establish boundaries with Cass, communicating his concerns in an efficient and polite manner so that the two could coexist peacefully with this dependency. But Steph wasn’t going to ask questions -- Cass knew it made her uncomfortable. It was clear that she was trying not to let it get to her, that she was trying to treat Cass like she would’ve any other day, but there was still that lingering anxiety about her, that apprehension that overshadowed everything she did.

And before Cass can bring anything up, the waitress comes and takes their orders and gives them their food, and then Steph has taken to feeding her almost in a bid to keep her from saying anything. It’s a bit awkward, finding ways to wedge in conversation between mouthfuls. Cass even has to remind Steph to eat before her food gets cold, much to her dismay. She thought it’d be different, but it’s simply that she hasn’t been able to allow Steph to adjust yet. That’s all.

Cass and Alfred had a spattering of months in order to figure out the mechanics of their relationship, and while it seemed to be smooth sailing so far, there was always the possibility that there would be a problem that would arise in the future. It’s just that with Steph, Cass was far more used to the sense of comfort and warmth of being with one’s significant other, regardless of whether or not this familiarity was only because of Steph being her first. And now, it was all gone, replaced by the uncertainty of strangers. Cass didn’t want her and Steph to be strangers.

Steph pays the bill quickly and it becomes even more evident to Cass that all she wants to do is get out of the diner. The service at first had been, yes, questionable, but in the end, they had accommodated Cass’s needs and even apologized for the hostess’s behavior. Cass didn’t need much else to forgive them; Steph looked like she needed monetary compensation, and then some, to even consider it.

“Are you okay?” Cass asks tentatively, not quite sure how to approach the object of Steph’s discomfort. Clearly, something about her is bothering her, but whether it’s having to take care of Cass, or it’s Cass’s treatment by others, she doesn’t know. “I mean, is everything all right?”

“Hmm?” Steph says, faking obliviousness. “Yeah. Of course!” Cass has been around Rosario long enough to know what a fake smile looks like. Her lips are stretched too wide, forced to form the shape of a grin without any of the genuine tug amusement or, in this case, reassurance, brings. The smile’s so wide that her eyes threaten to shut, but that’s a subconscious decision she’s made to hide the fact that the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. A learned behavior. “Nothing’s wrong. You ready?”

Okay. So she doesn’t want to talk about this in public. Cass can understand. She’ll just mention it later, when they’re at home and alone. Maybe in her room, though she can’t guess whether or not Alfred or Bruce will barge in at any time that they’d like.

She’ll just put it off for later.

* * *

The movie is chosen on a whim, based on a single-sentence synopsis found on-line. The girl in the box office arches a brow when she notices Cass being the person that the second ticket is for, but doesn’t say anything. Steph’s annoyance is provoked again though she refrains from confronting the box office attendant.

“You can sit farther up if you want,” Cass tells Steph as they’re waiting in the concession line, Cass off to the side and Steph in the line closest to her. “I know you don’t like sitting too close to the screen, but the handicap location is lower, so.”

It provides easy access to the exits if need be, but Cass doesn’t like to think about hypotheticals like this. She used to do so when it was easier for her to free-run down rows of velvet chairs, but it’s best not to think about anything that might cause her some consternation and worry. Still, Steph’s always like sitting up near the higher rows of the theater, looking down at the screen rather than looking up.

After placing her order of a large bucket of popcorn, chicken tenders, and two sodas, Steph shakes her head and stands to Cass’s side. “I’m fine where I am,” she says, sounding more like she wants to reassure herself. Cass doesn’t want to infringe on her decision-making, but she can’t help but read disingenuity in every one of Steph’s answers.

She won’t protest against something Steph apparently seems so adamant to deny herself. Instead, she’ll content herself, she thinks, as she’s wheeled into place with their food stacked onto her lap (at her insistence, despite Steph’s protests) and Steph takes the seat beside her, with the fact that Steph takes her hand. Even if she can’t feel the slender fingers slotting between hers, seeing it is good enough.

It’s this reason that she doesn’t pay attention to the movie for the first half hour, instead focusing on the clandestine hand-holding, and noting the people in the vicinity. Cass had shrugged and agreed to watch any movie Steph wanted to, because if it was good enough to catch Steph’s eye, then Cass believed it was good enough for her. She wasn’t even a movie buff herself, having only seen the Back to the Future series recently at Bruce’s insistence. The idea of spending time with Steph takes precedence.

It seems, though, that despite the faith that she’s placed in her, Steph has chosen what Duke would refer to as a ‘chick flick.’ Surrounding them are a plethora of teenages girls clutching oversized purses to their chests, with an occasional older woman sitting at the end of a row or with a gaggle of younger girls -- clearly a chaperone. There have been one or two boys that have entered, but someone walked out and Cass hadn’t turned to look.

She doesn’t pay attention to the film until there’s a loud shout from the male lead, a strange croaking noise that startles Cass but makes Steph laugh. Cass looks up at the screen, noting that Steph cracks her neck, adjusting to the elevation. 

The chair she sees on screen looks all too familiar -- she notes, though, that it is without a straw. An indication that the protagonist has at least the slightest of usages of his fingers. It was a goal that Cass had set for herself early in her therapy, hoping that she’d be able to recover enough mobility in her hands that she’d be able to use a different type of wheelchair than the sip-and-puff. She hadn’t reached that goal, but it wasn’t a thought she was going to let fester in her mind.

Instead, she decides it’s probably best to focus on the film. Steph had paid for her ticket, after all, so it was only fair that she make use of it to watch a film that had been chosen as a date feature. Though Cass wasn’t actually listening to the synopsis, it was easy to figure out the plot just by paying attention for a few moments. It isn’t often that they watch anything that isn’t action or a comedy, so it ought to arouse more of her consideration anyway.

As she watches, though, the character dynamics seem increasingly familiar. A paraplegic romantic lead and their bubbly love interest-main character, struggling with caregiving. Cass wonders if this outing is Steph’s own bid to get Cass to want to keep living. Judging by Steph’s candid reactions, though, it seems like she’s never seen the film and couldn’t have drawn inspiration from something she hadn’t even been aware of.

The film itself is sweet enough, with the two leads growing closer steadily and heartwarmingly, and then the twist hits both Cass and the protagonist like a freight train -- any and all efforts to cheer up the romantic lead were for naught, and he was going forward with carrying out his original plan to commit assisted suicide. Surrounding her, women are sniffling and wiping their eyes with hastily packed tissues as the protagonist shouts at her lover that she hates him for tricking her and making her fall in love with her.

The rest of the film plays like they aren’t going to reconcile, but after some nudging from a supporting sister character, the protagonist finds it in herself to forgive the lead for his evident chicanery and to accompany him in his final moments before he is euthanized. The film ends with her fulfilling his apparent dying wish by doing as she wishes and going to Paris. Freeing herself from him. A burden.

She sends a cautious look Steph’s way, trying to contain her blanch as she sees watery eyes and a clenched jaw. She can’t possibly… Cass pushes the thought out of her mind. She’d proposed to herself to adopt Rosario’s optimism, after all. There was no good in thinking the worst of people. Just because Steph feels touched by the film doesn’t mean that she feels the same way for Cass.

There’s no way that Steph would consider her a burden, a source of weight and stress. One that was bogging her down. The film was artfully created and the story carefully constructed to elicit tears from the people who watched, and it had -- nearly the entire theater was in tears by the end of the film. Except for Cass, who knew just what the paraplegic millionaire was going through, even in severity, though not in temperament.

Cass had indeed nursed the idea that her condition would ultimately place a strain on everyone else, especially Alfred. But she had a network that made sure she would never feel like that again. Everyone she knew -- Bruce, Alfred, Tim, Duke, Damian, Babs, Dick -- had reassured her to the best of their ability. All except Steph, who had been there when Cass broke her neck, and who had shied away in the time afterward only to tentatively return. And now she’s acting strange, easily angered on Cass’s behalf and worryingly influenced by a movie that implied that the death of a handicapped man set the love of his life free. Cass wants to speak to her about it, but knows that she’ll only be met with more evasions until Cass can successfully corner her for an actual conversation.

By the time they step out of the theater and into Alfred’s car, she notes that any trace of sadness or sympathy on Steph’s face has been erased with impassiveness, a mask drawn over her face. It’s not a good look for her, but neither she nor Alfred press any questions.

* * *

“I wanted to talk to you about what happened today,” Cass tells Steph, cutting the shit. Steph has shuffled her out of her clothes, helping Cass dress into her pajamas and loading her into the bed with a little bit of fumbling. “I know things got a little weird, and the movie…”

“What about it?” Steph asks. She’s genuinely unaware. “I thought it was okay. I mean, did you see her eyebrows? I didn’t know they could bend like that.” She’s trying to find humor now that she’s noticed that Cass isn’t amused. Cass watches Steph’s eyes dart away, stuck between the valley of enthusiasm and sympathy. She knows she’s done something wrong, but isn’t sure what.

Cass frowns. “I know you and I haven’t been out in… basically forever. But you had to realize things were going to change, didn’t you? I was prepared for people’s reactions to me, no matter how offensive or derogatory. People don’t think about these things a lot, but the time I did during the time I was indoors.”

“Cass…” Steph looks at her lap guiltily. This isn’t what Cass wanted -- she didn’t blame Steph for wanting to go out with her, and she quickly moves to assuage those feelings of contrition.

“I’m not mad at you. I just… you got kind of annoyed today. By how they were treating me. I’m grateful that you care so much, it was too much. I don’t want that. For you to be angry always because of me. I don’t want you to see other people differently because they are not used to me.” Cass grits her teeth. She doesn’t like arguing with Steph -- in fact, throughout their relationship, their fights have never quite gone past playful squabbling. It’s strange to consider that the little bliss that they had would be broken by something Cass had so desperately hoped wouldn’t change things between them.

“Okay,” Steph says, trying to understand. “I’m sorry. I was just… God, I didn’t realize people would look at you that way. I thought…” She thought everyone would have that sort of overwhelming, almost patronizing sympathy. There’s a conflict in Steph’s gaze -- trapping her between seeing Cass as helpless and strong regardless of any ailment. She was in the chair, she needed help, but she was still Cass. Except it was hard for Steph to see beyond what she had avoided for so long.

Cass shakes her head. “I know. And the movie… I didn’t like it. At all.” Her words make Steph’s head shoot up, eyes wide. It certainly wasn’t a masterpiece, that was for sure, but Cass’s gripes went far beyond what Steph might have assumed were her feelings for the movie. “They made him a problem. When he was treated the same by the people at the restaurant, she got angry, like you did. Except she talked more. And through the entire thing, he thought he was a problem. He wanted to get rid of himself. Because he saw himself as a problem. I didn’t like it. I’m not a problem.”

“I know you’re not. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize --”

“But you were into it. I know you’re sorry, but you almost cried. You were sad because she was losing him. Because everything she did couldn’t make him feel like he wasn’t a problem. I was angry, because she shouldn’t have to. Because he shouldn’t have felt like a problem, but she wasn’t addressing that issue. She was trying to make him happy to survive. But she didn’t see why he wasn’t happy.

“Actually, it was normal. No one said anything at all. They agreed. That wasn’t a good movie. And that was when you really should’ve been angry.” She pauses, wondering if she should ask. Screw it, she decides. “Is that why you weren’t there? After I got hurt I waited so long for you and you weren’t there. We saw each other maybe four times. And then you came back.

“I thought it was because you were busy. Tired. But today you didn’t say anything about what you were doing. I don’t know what mission you’re on, because Bruce doesn’t say anything. So I want to know if it’s me. If you’re scared of me, of what happened.”

Steph shakes her head. “I’m not, Cass. I’m sorry if I made it seem that way, but I’m not scared of you. I’m… scared of what happened. I was so close to you, and if I had just done something, gone after you, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. I’m sad. And I’m sorry, and I didn’t know how to face you.”

Cass doesn’t know what to say. She flounders for a moment, unable to comprehend the turmoil of her emotions. She doesn’t understand quite what she’s feeling -- shock, anger, annoyance, sympathy. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be Steph, to have seen her significant other lose basically everything within a span of moments, with one bad call. But it wasn’t Steph’s place to feel guilty, to force herself to feel bad because of something that was out of her control. And now she was letting this illogical guilt ruin the relationship they had.

“I’m…” Cass starts over. “I didn’t know you felt that way. I’m sorry that you do. But that’s not a good enough excuse. No excuse is good enough. I needed you, Steph. I needed you to help me, to let me know things were okay, but you weren’t there. I waited for you. I made up reasons for you to not come by and I believed them. But I think I know why because of today. You didn’t want anything to change. You didn’t want to see that things weren’t going to be normal anymore. You’ve never liked change. I wish you could’ve been there with me from the beginning, but you weren’t. Because you weren’t ready to see difference.”

“Cass, please, you have to understand -- it was hard on all of us, and I know it makes me weak for not being able to be there, but I needed time too. I wasn’t scared of you, but I was scared for you, Cass. While you were in that coma, I thought you weren’t going to wake up. And when you did, and Bruce… Bruce told me we were never going to be able to work together again, I felt like I lost something. And it’s taken me time to come to terms with the fact that I lost something.”

She lost… Steph lost something out of this. What garbage. If Cass could, she would’ve balled up her fists at her sides. A gesture of anger in subtlety, but instead she is reduced to furrowed brows and scowls. “You lost something… You were… sad? That we couldn’t fight together anymore, that Spoiler and Orphan were no more.” She feels her eyes getting wet, sees the world start to blur in front of her, and she hates it. She promised Rosario no more crying, but look at where she was now. “If that’s what you really think… then maybe you shouldn’t be with someone like me.”

It’s so quiet Cass could’ve sworn that Steph stopped breathing. Neither of them look at each other, unwilling to face the other knowing that if they do, they’ll break. “You don’t mean that,” Steph whispers, breaking the silence. “That’s not funny, Cass.”

“I do,” Cass retorts. More often than not, she views her expanded vocabulary as a gift. Her articulation now massively expanded, it’s easier for her to illustrate her thoughts. But now there’s too many to spell everything out. “I mean it. If you can’t handle these differences, how things have changed, then I won’t hold you to it. I won’t force you to be with me. What you want isn’t what I am. So you should be with someone else. Someone not broken. I don’t blame you if you want to leave.”

Steph makes a strangled noise of frustration. “But I don’t! Cass…”

“Steph,” she says sharply. “Maybe you don’t quite feel that way. At least, you’re trying not to. But some part of you deep down is uncomfortable with me and my circumstance. It’s why you’re so easily agitated by things that go wrong around me because of me. By how people are different around me, especially those who knew me before the accident. You don’t want to be with me. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say at the wrong place and the wrong time, right before patrol in the loneliness of Cass’s room. Maybe there was a better way to handle this, with calm words and attempts at understanding. But it’s agony to see Steph like this. To see the girl she loved gone so awry. Cass doesn’t know how it happened, but she realizes that she hasn’t seen enough of Steph to notice any shifts anyways. And here she was proposing the possibility that she never see any more changes again. They’ll probably continue to see each other on the vigilante front, if nothing else.

Steph’s scrambling, rubbing her forehead in a gesture of consternation. Cass hasn’t even noticed her changing into her costume. “Look, we’re both tired, and annoyed, so let’s just… Let’s just shelve this conversation for some other time. I have to go. I’ll call you… or something.”

Almost as soon as the words leave Steph’s mouth, Cass knows they’re an empty promise. She’s not going to call any time soon. She’s going to hide, going to wait it out until she thinks she can handle the prospect of being with someone like Cass. It’s a coward’s exit that Steph takes as she stumbles out the door, nearly slamming into a bewildered Bruce. 

He had come to collect Steph, but seeing the aftermath of what had happened between the two of them, he’s more inclined to check on Cassandra instead. He opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong, but she shakes her head. Respecting her choice, he gives her a sympathetic look and walks back down the hall. She doesn’t want to talk about it just yet. She doesn’t want to think about what she’s just done, about the first big fight she’s ever had with Steph. Ever.

Cass supposes that means that they’re both cowards. But Cass won’t be making excuses for Steph nor herself anymore. Even though that movie lead may actually be right.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass heals.

True to Cass’s suspicions, they don’t speak. It becomes like it used to be, with Cass indoors and Steph outside. They don’t even cross paths in the dead of night anymore, Cass no longer invested in whatever Bruce is dealing with, though she hears offhandedly that the Joker is planning yet another harebrained scheme. It’s incredible how much one conversation can be so taxing, so much so that it seems like Cass no longer wants to speak to anyone else, but she supposes it speaks to how much Steph means (or meant) to her.

(It is still, however, cruel to excommunicate someone who had been so close, though, so she supposes the word “means” still works.)

To have the girl she loved consider her somehow intrinsically inferior despite all forms of conscious thought apparently telling Steph that Cass wasn’t so. It seemed the id won out there, and now there was little either of them could do to salvage what they had. Steph was too frightened and shocked by the accusation to come around again, and Cass wasn’t about to go out of her way to search for Steph and fix things.

It wasn’t pride that stopped her, but rather an admission that the problem was simply with Steph herself. No amount of Cass changing herself could repair their broken relationship, and it was up to Steph herself to unlearn what she was thinking before they could even attempt anything again. One of the many things Babs taught Cass was that she shouldn’t take it upon herself to fix others’ ways of thought. Whatever prejudices existed had to be unlearned on their own -- only then could the change in a person’s character be measured.

But that didn’t mean Cass was miserable. She was alone again. The only time someone had bothered to ask her out ended in an apparently inexorable conflict. There was the thought that maybe if she had just left well alone, she would no longer be in this situation. But she couldn’t have just let Steph keep thinking of her like that. Cass wanted respect, wanted more than just sympathy and sad, forlorn looks.

Bruce tried to comfort her at first, but the investigation he’d been working on quickly consumed his attention. She didn’t blame him for his waning concentration -- Gotham’s safety once again trumped any of Cass’s emotional distress. After all, she’d learned at a young age to compartmentalize any sort of mental inconvenience so as not to bother her father. A little self-deprecation was no problem, or so she liked to think to herself.

Few others but Alfred and Rosario have any time for her, and for the latter, she’s absolutely sure it’s because he’s getting paid. Cass is glad to provide a use in the form of getting him money, though she still actively participates in the exercises he sets up, out of reflex if nothing else. He’s notably refrained from the other form of therapy he evidently excels out, quelling his loquaciousness in favor of affinity through silence. It no longer gives Cass an opportunity to perform exercises in communication, but she’s never been able to observe Rosario quite as much as she has when he’s quiet.

The silence is still out of character for him, but Cass appreciates it nonetheless. **  
**

Alfred, in turn, is more likely to leave her alone. While he had never been overbearing when asking if she needed anything, the first few weeks of incessant attention aside, it was clear that he realized something happened after picking Steph and Cass up, and resolved to keep away for a while to let the both of them heal.

He’s maintained the distance for a few weeks, stopping by every few hours to examine any change in need, but Cass never has any. He feeds her at mealtimes before retiring to take his own food, and then he continues to work as he always has. He’s offered to talk only once, but acquiesced when seeing the expression that crossed Cass’s face at his suggestion.

To say nothing of the others, of course, who had also not deigned to see her often.

Damian was kept as busy as his father, now an equal more than an apprentice, though it wasn’t as if the two had spent much time together beforehand anyways. The kinship of speechlessness between them was lost when Cass received a bedtime and Damian was forced to keep to odd hours in order to aid Bruce. Though the elder had protested, Robin had made quite the case for being an authority on the Joker’s latest scheme. After all, he had said, he was already expelled from Gotham Academy. What was to stop him from learning at home, like Cass did?

But they had never learnt together. Their curriculums were entirely different, with Damian poring over the library without the aid of a tutor anyway. She loved to read too, but couldn’t do it without having propped up for her, and she decided she’d rather not have a page-turner waiting by her side all day. Once that tablet Bruce ordered for her, the one that tracked her eye movements, came in, she supposed they could form a book club of their own. Still, Damian looked tired as it was, regardless of his contrarian nature.

Thus, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Cass was startled when she was cornered by Tim and Duke one day while cooling down after Rosario had hopped, skipped, and jumped his way out the door. She isn’t sure what day it is, but she’s sure that the two have never approached her like this -- confrontational and from opposite sides, almost like they were hoping to trap her. With one at her back and one at her front, she’s understandably a little startled and wary.

“Can I help you?” she asks, arching a brow as she stares at Tim. She had intended to head to the rec room to catch up whatever trashy soap opera was on at the time, but it only so happened that the apparently now conjoined twins thought it would be the best time to talk to her privately, if a bit threateningly. “You could’ve just asked to talk, you know.”

Duke, whom she can see through the hallway mirror, has the decency to look sheepish. “We know. We just… thought you wouldn’t want to say yes to what we were about to ask, considering what happened last time.”

“And what were you going to ask?” Nevermind the fact that they had just admitted to resorting to kidnapping had she not agreed. It was more like her father than Bruce to perform such an action, but under the employ of Duke and Tim, the tactic would be nothing short of harmless. **  
**

“We wanted to take you out too,” Tim responds. “Steph beat us to the punch but…” He offers a shrug. Again, Cass wonders if he still feels for Steph like he used to, but even still, he hasn’t made any mention of it. Nonetheless, in spite of the development in Cass’s speech, it seemed more than probable that any attempt at a conversation about their respective feelings for Steph would be nothing short of awkward. And since she had been spending less and less time at the manor, Cass thought it was safe to say that Steph had completely left Tim’s radar. Rather, Cass had to ponder the implications of his and Duke’s closeness, though she wouldn’t dare to ask.

Cass exhales through her nose. “But,” she repeats.

“But,” Duke cuts in, “we thought we could get a similar answer. I mean, unless you have any plans.” The unspoken You don’t hangs lifelessly in the air -- probably unvocalized due to how mean Duke realized it would sound if said aloud.

“I don’t,” Cass says, as if uttering the words herself made them less pitiful. She doesn’t think about it that way, instead weighing her options. Another venture outside had the possibility of being another disaster, but she ought to have more faith in her friends. Duke and Tim weren’t Steph (thankfully), and it wasn’t as if Steph was going out of her way to humiliate Cass, so it stood to reason that the two boys wouldn’t either.

She can tell they’re trying not to look too impatient as they wait for her to consider her answer, and again it seems that their offer of kidnapping, though hardly an offer, still stands. It isn’t as if she could repel it, in any case. “I don’t see why not,” she says eventually, waiting if only to see how long they would, and then cracking a smile at their relieved expressions. “But did you clear this with Alfred first? After all, he is the one driving the car, isn’t he?”

Tim shakes his head, holding up the car’s keys. “Already asked him if I could drive,” he says, though the expression on his face makes it seem like this isn’t entirely the truth. “Relax, Cass. We even know how to strap the chair in.”

“Oh,” Cass says. She’s more than a little surprised. Unsupervised romping wasn’t exactly high on her to-do list, but it was Duke and Tim. Responsibility with a dash of adventure in equal measure. “Well, then, it looks like you’ve got this all figured out.”

She doesn’t ask what the look shared between the two means, but it’s more than just an ‘I told you so.’

* * *

They end up going to a fast food joint where Cass sits outside with Tim as Duke goes inside with their orders. The doorway to the building proper is considerably smaller than would be preferable to fit the chair through, but she’s more comfortable in an open space anyways. It occurs to her that it’s a weekday when she sees a flurry of uniforms around the outdoor tables, and she casts Tim a critical look.

“Did you and Duke… skip school to be with me?” she asks. She already knows the answer, but still wants him to confirm her suspicions. Something about making people feel guiltier when they admit their own wrongdoing.

Tim doesn’t look even a little bit sheepish as he nods. “Not like my grades will take a hit, though. And anyways, Bruce could just dangle a hundred dollar bill in front of them and I’d be a-okay.” She watches him bite back a snort at what she assumes to be her incredulous expression.

Cass wants to protest more, but when she opens her mouth, Duke plops a paper hat on her head. It lands lopsided, and she scowls until he fixes it. She’s surprised that he remembers. A while back, they’d decided it was going to be a tradition to purchase any fast food headgear merchandise ever since they went to that donut place. She settles when the paper hat is placed correctly, no longer obstructing her vision, and takes a bite of the burger that Duke holds out in front of her. Cass makes a grateful noise as he wipes away some of the sauce that’s accumulated at the corner of her mouth.

“It’s been a while since I’ve gone out for burgers,” Cass tells them. She doesn’t think the last time with Steph counts. Everything had been so all over the place that she hadn’t any time to enjoy herself nor the burger itself. Duke seems to have taken notes from Alfred. 

He splits it into neat little pieces and forks them towards her, absentmindedly chewing his own food. It’s almost paternal in action, and Cass thinks briefly on what Duke would be like as a father. The only ones she had to go off of were David Cain and Bruce, but she’s sure whatever the future Thomas brood was like, they’d have a good father.

Cass is busy nodding at the boys, allowing them to snatch from her fries, when a pair of Gotham Academy students approach them. She tries not to make it seem like she jerks in surprise, focused instead on looking away and muting the conversation happening around her as best she can. From what small noises she can make out, they’re talking about Damian -- God only knows why.

She attempts to retreat further into hiding, but then one of them seizes her by the shoulder and leans into her space. “Hey!” she chirps. A younger girl, with short hair and a yellow hairpiece, she seems far too smiley for Cass’s liking. Her breath smells vaguely of a double-double mixed with some soda -- Sprite, perhaps? “I haven’t seen you around. Are you a friend of Damian’s too?”

“Uh,” Cass says, first unsure how to respond. She sees Tim move to jump into the conversation, and quickly interjects his addition with, “Yeah. You could say that.” **  
**

“Cool!” the girl responds, and takes Cass’s hand to shake. “I’m --”

Her companion sees fit to cut her off, scolding her with a light, “Maps!” She turns to Cass, brushing her silver hair behind her ear. “I’m so sorry about her, she can be a bit… much,” she mumbles, taking Cass’s hand out of the other girl’s grip and placing it back on her lap where it was before. “I’m Olive, this is Maps.”

“Hi,” Cass says, ducking her head in lieu of a wave.

The girl named Olive pauses, giving her a once over. Cass would like to think the gaze isn’t suspicious, but she knows that look well. Critical, but not too pervasive, throwing off any indication of negative perusal if not for the slight hardening of her eyes. “I haven’t seen you around,” Olive says eventually. “Are you new in town?”

“She’s been here for a few months,” Duke butts in, “but she got…” He throws Cass a look. “… in an accident. So she wasn’t able to enroll for fall semester at the Academy.”

“Oh,” Olive murmurs, looking regretful that she’s asked, but then Maps chimes back, seemingly unfazed, “Does that mean you’re going to be enrolling for winter? It’s always cool to hang with new students. I mean, you probably wouldn’t be in our year, but we could be friends!”

Cass does admit, the notion had always sounded enticing. When she moved in with Bruce, she swore to herself that she would get an “authentic” teenage girl existence, and high school had been one of the many parts of such a life. It only so happened that her plans were put on hold, and while she had thought said stasis would be permanent, Bruce had brought up the idea of attending. 

He could hire a temp worker to help her around since Alfred would be busy at the manor, and while her experience would be admittedly different from the average Gotham Academy junior, she’d still be able to go and make new friends beyond the vigilante network of Gotham. She’d never put much stock in the suggestion. Maybe it was time to reconsider.

“Maybe you can go ghost-hunting with us!” Maps chirps encouragingly. She’s so cheerful, friendly. Her bubbliness makes Cass want to smile.

Cass imagines that she would indeed been someone good to get close to if she had attended the Academy when the semester began. It isn’t as if she dislikes Alfred’s homeschooling, but the curriculum isn’t exactly what one would consider well-rounded -- focused, of course, mostly on the construction of Cassandra’s speech and her literacy more than anything else. So, she supposes, it could be equivalent to a high school English course, though she had nothing to compare it to except for what she’d seen on TV.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, anyway,” Olive says, and offers a friendly wave before walking off. It seems whatever distrust had been brewing behind her eyes was gone, and the pair depart just as quickly as they had arrived. **  
**

Cass watches her go, eyes fixed on the plaid uniform skirt and the brown blazer. She could’ve worn that, if a series of unfortunate events hadn’t prevented that. Of course, nothing would prevent her from wearing it then, though she would need some help slipping it on and the awkward explanation of just wanting to see it on her person was probably going to raise even Alfred’s eyebrows. No, it was probably better just to use mental imagery. Less of a hassle that way.

She realizes that she’s been too quiet for too long when she feels two pairs of eyes on her. Cass turns to look at Tim and Duke, whose expressions are unreadable. “What?” she says, not accusatorially.

“Nothing,” Duke responds, giving Tim a look. “We have one stop left. But take your time.” He checks his watch and then his phone. “Sunset isn’t until eight anyways.”

* * *

They go to the beach after the sun has set. It isn’t as dark as it was the last time she was here, when she was still able to walk. Instinctively, she stiffens. She doesn’t even turn to look at them, instead gritting out, “What are we doing here?”

“I thought it would be nice,” Tim says, “to confront your demons.” His hand comes to a rest on the nape of her neck -- a gesture that would threatening if it wasn’t so gentle. She doesn’t shrink away from his touch, both because she can’t but also because she’s stunned.

Cass scrunches up her nose in distaste and confusion. “What do you mean demons? I’m… I’m fine.” Her hesitation gives it away, or so it would seem, but she remains steadfast in her own mind that there’s nothing to exorcise from her. She’s come to terms with herself, with her status and the irrevocable lifestyle changes that have come with it.

Duke kicks of his shoes and buries his feet in the sand, sitting down in front her. He pats the space to his left and Tim plops down quickly after. Neither of them seem to mind that the wheelchair will be hell to pull out of the sand. They’re just lucky the sand’s not wet -- they’re too far away from the ocean proper for that.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Duke says. He leans back on the heels of his hands, head coming to rest on Cass’s knee.

She doesn’t know what he’s getting at, isn’t sure if she likes what they’re going to talk about next. Though they’re performing a frivolous activity, watching the ocean at night, the atmosphere is heavy with words unsaid. She knew that this excursion was an intervention, but she didn’t think that they would be going so far as to have a heart-to-heart after dark. **  
**

It’s not even as if they can see much, with the moon covered partially by clouds and the shroud of night pulling everything into monochromatic schemes. But the lull of the ocean’s waves had always been an appealing sound to her. Maybe if she had contented herself with that so many months ago, she wouldn’t be feeling this tingling sensation in the back of her neck, a semblance of fight or flight from a conversation she really doesn’t want to participate in.

Still, because Cass is a masochist, she answers, “Yes, it is.”

“I can see the gears turning in your head,” says Tim, even though he hasn’t turned to look at her once. He amends his sentence quickly: “Or hear, rather.” Unlike Duke, he leans forward. “You keep thinking about the what-ifs, don’t you? You say that you’ve come to terms with your disability, but in reality you’ve come to terms with the results, not what actually happened. Even if you don’t want to, you think of hypotheticals. You think about what it would be like if you didn’t make one bad choice.”

Cass blinks. So what if she does? Can they blame her for thinking back on an accident that had changed her life forever? It isn’t so strange for her to imagine what it might have been like if she’d made the right choices, where she would be now if she wasn’t in the chair. Maybe she’d be working on homework, calling Bruce for assistance while he quickly and discreetly (or so he thought) looked up the answer online. They sure as hell wouldn’t be having this conversation.

“Yes,” she says contestingly, “I do. I think about it a lot.”

Duke purses his lips. He clearly didn’t think she was going to fess up to it. “Well, we think you think about it too much. There’s a difference between thinking about what ifs and wishing things were different. I hate to break it to you, Cass, but a lot of the time, we notice you crossing the line -- and we see how it hurts you.” 

Awfully self-righteous of them, she thinks, but that might just be the indignation at being confronted talking. They have a point, though, part of her mind says. She thinks of herself as considering hypotheticals, but rather than having passing thoughts, they quickly evolve into daydreams and fantasies about what might have been. Thinking about what a heavy course load she’d have taken at school, about the dates she and Steph would’ve have gone to and the eventual colleges they’d have applied to. Perhaps even taking over the mantle of Batgirl from Babs one day. All of these visions had become so vivid, so real.

She thought and dreamt very often about what it would be like to not have been a burden.

“And you can’t think about the beach without thinking about the accident, can you?” Tim asks. **  
**

He already knows the answer -- yes, she can’t. If she hadn’t come, she wouldn’t be here like this. But there it was again, the word ‘if.’ A dangerous word, a gateway to possibilities she shouldn’t be fathoming, a sense of loss she ought not to have been overwhelmed by flooding every pore the moment those two letters entered her mind. Cass lets the beach define who she is. Cassandra Cain, the girl who got paralyzed at a beach. Cassandra Cain, the girl who might’ve had a bright future, if not for a beach.

“You’re more than that, but you seem to have forgotten,” Tim continues. “Yes, you’re Cassandra Cain, a girl in a wheelchair. But you’re also Cassandra Cain, one of Gotham’s protectors. Cassandra Cain, Orphan. Cassandra Cain, our sister, who should never have to deal with her pain and heartbreak alone.” He reaches out to put a hand on her knee, and she feels her upper lip begin to wobble, vision quickly blurring with liquefaction.

Subconsciously, she’d known that was what she was to Bruce’s kids -- a sister. But the words had never been spoken aloud, and she doesn’t think there was even time to do so. It was a given that she was a part of their family, especially now since she was a constant fixture at the manor -- not by her own volition, yes, but a permanence nonetheless. Damian had taken a liking to her at first before his budding career got in the way, and, of course, the boys had become the best of friends, perhaps hindered only by the amount of hours they spent on schoolwork that Cassandra had no fixed interest in.

They were right. They were right about everything. Not only about them being family, but about her being unable to accept herself. She’d talked big to Steph about acceptance thinking of Cass as less a helpless victim and more of a girl who was in a wheelchair, but a functioning human being nonetheless. A girl who made a mistake and needs help now because of it, but not a lesser person who depended solely on others.

As if they can still see the gears turning in her head, her brothers smile at her. “You see what we’re saying?” Duke says softly. “You’re more than what you give yourself credit for. You can say the words, but now we want you to believe what they mean.”

Cass will, and this time she’ll make a conscious effort to. No more daydreaming about going to Gotham Academy on foot, no more choose your own adventure books playing out in her mind almost like a movie about what she should have done. It was time to think of the future, and not of the past. She’d done enough of that, and she was going to stop starting now. Everything would be fresh, reinvigorated.

She was a hard worker. She was diligent, attentive, earnest. Cass was determined. She was part of a family of dedication, loyalty, and perseverance. She came from a home of skill and perfection, and that was exactly what she was -- perfection. Not wasted potential. Potential that has yet to see the light of day.

Crashing waves were not vile beasts that tore a life away from her, but hallmarks that decorated a distinctive and dangerous life. The chair and its straw were not instruments designed to keep her alive, but tools with which she could reinvent herself. Her pain was not a wall, but rather a stairway to something better. **  
**

Cass closes her eyes, letting her head fall back against the headrest of the chair with a quiet thump and a sigh leaving her mouth. She senses the twitch pushing slightly back on her chair that the action has alarmed the boys, but she gives them a crooked grin as she opens her eyes again. They watch with tentative puzzlement, but there’s also amusement in their eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” Tim queries curiously.

“Nothing much,” Cass responds, shrugging. “Just about… how much I hate the fucking ocean.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass heals others.

The first time Cass enters the Batcave since her accident is when Damian gets shot.

It isn’t anything major -- relatively speaking, of course. She sees immediately that the boy’s legs are hurt, cradled in his father’s arms as he rushes out of the Batmobile. She had heard the speedy return, tiles screeching on the subterranean level, and had rushed over to see what the commotion was. Alfred had tossed her a surprised look when she appeared at the top of the ramp, but made no other move aside from helping her down.

“What happened?” she asks, though she can easily figure out the answer herself. As father and son approach, she sees that Damian’s boots are ruined, the green leather puckered from an entry wound and exit and then another entry. Crimson drips from both of his ankles, more profusely from the left than the right. 

“We ran into some trouble,” Bruce says, as if that wasn’t obvious. His brows are furrowed beneath the cowl as he lays Damian down on a cot, speckled with brown from previous encounters with the Bats’ blood. “Thought we had rounded all of them up, but turns out one was in the shadows with a pistol. And for once, they did the smart thing and aimed at our legs.”

He casts a look at the Batcomputer, eyes fixing on the schematics of their suits in the lower left corner. Cass can already tell that he’s going to spend all night trying to fix up something new -- maybe add carbon fiber and other such materials to make every single covered part now bulletproof.

Damian is uncharacteristically quiet, but the way his face is pinched up and his eyes are trained on the ground make it obvious to Cass that what he’s feeling is shame. She wishes there was something she could say, but they’re not nearly close enough for her to offer comfort without any barbed retorts in return.

With Alfred crowding her out as he tries to tug Damian’s boots off as painlessly as possible, she decides it’s probably better to go check on Bruce, who took his seat in front of the Batcomputer stiffly and with purpose, the drive she’d seen swallow him whole. It wasn’t an effort to better his efforts in the future -- it was his way of shutting down. He’d had his companions hurt before -- even killed -- but there was something about his son, whom he had already lost, getting injured that ignited an unhealthy flame within him.

It isn’t as if the boy is going to die, though that isn’t quite how she’ll open the conversation. In fact, she doesn’t even start a conversation until the wee hours of the night, two cups of oolong tea perched on a tray attached to the arm of her chair. Alfred has already bade her goodnight and Damian is safely tucked away into his bed, no worse for the wear. Only Bruce and Cass remain awake, and the latter is fighting sleep as she slowly rolls down the ramp toward him.

If Bruce had been in his right mind, he probably would’ve heard her approach, but as it is, his shoulders rise when she clears her throat and he turns quickly to look at her. The most she can offer him is a wary smile and a small puff forward. Bruce’s eyes are bloodshot, his lips bitten bloody. He hasn’t had a break since he got back six hours ago and it doesn’t look like he’s going to fall into bed any time soon.

“I brought you something,” Cass says, because they’re all full understatements these days. She takes a sip out of the cup with the straw, letting the heat rest deep in her belly. Her chair rolls right up to the edge of the table, and she nudges him with a shoulder. “Drink.”

He takes the cup without looking, but doesn’t raise it to his lips. Bruce is too busy tapping away to let the steam that rises into his face bother him. There’s a dangerous laser-focus in his eyes, lines etched deep with worry, and a stern mouth that clearly is not in the mood to open.

Instead, she turns her attention to what has captured his -- the screen. On it are the schematics of Robin’s current costume, now updated with the bullet holes, and on another screen, a zoom-in on Wonder Woman’s plated boots. He seems to be studying the makeup of the boots, the hinges that allow movement despite being plated and thus bulletproof.

“Drink,” she says, this time more forcefully, like how Alfred taught her. Bruce lifts the cup to his mouth and winces when he burns his tongue. For a moment, Cass thinks that Alfred is some sort of enchanter. Without the use of Alfred’s sonic manipulation, she urges him, “You ought to rest. You’re not doing anyone any good by cooping yourself up in here like this, Bruce. Least of all Damian.”

He barely flashes her a look over his shoulder, hurtfully dismissive, before he turns back to the screen. “I’m pretty sure reinforced armor and a better costume is going to help Damian plenty, Cassandra.” And then he’s back to running calculations, pretending like she’s not even there, like the rest of the world’s not even there. Cass doesn’t think she’s ever seen the Bat’s legendary insomniac drive up close, but now that she’s here, she doesn’t think that it’s all that impressive.

“You can work on it at a reasonable hour,” she insists. “Staying up all night is only going to make you tired, and it’s going to hurt Babs when she’s on patrol with you tomorrow -- actually, tonight.” The timestamp at the top of the computer blinks at them brightly, and Cass stifles a reflexive yawn at seeing the exact hour that she had stayed up in order to confront Bruce in his evidently natural habitat.

Bruce, apparently finally realizing that she isn’t going to go away any time soon, rubs his eyes tiredly and turns in his chair. “Shouldn’t you be asleep? As I recall, even Cassandra Cain needed her beauty rest.” His arms are crossed in front of him, in a petulantly childish. Whoever’s needled him before, be it his butler or his Kryptonian boyfriend, it seems they’ve never actually gotten him to stop working. Cass counts that as a victory.

“This isn’t like you,” Cass says. “I know I haven’t known you for nearly as long as everyone else has, but something’s telling me that you’re not working this hard just because you’re worried about Damian and the others. Plenty of us get hurt on the job every night.” She looks down at herself. “Some of us get hurt even if we’re not on the job. But you’ve moved past every single one of these incidents and occurrences. This isn’t the first time Damian’s been injured, and frankly, he’s gotten worse. So what’s the deal? Why is this time more important than the others.”

“Thank you for the psych eval, Cass,” Bruce responds. He’s terse, but not bitter. Means she’s weaseled him out, and he’s uncomfortable at the prospect of facing his own demons -- but, she supposes, avoiding his own demons was what created the Bat in the first place. A childhood dream to be the one who saved someone else’s Thomas and Martha grown into something that’s consumed his whole life. Rubbing a hand over his forehead, then swiping down his face, Bruce concedes defeat. “You’re right. This time was different.”

Cass nods, leaning back in her chair in a gesture that said she was getting herself comfortable. _Go on_ , it seemed to say.

“Damian got hurt… because of me,” he says. There’s a cautiousness to his words, reflected in his posture. His legs are taut, his toes apparently curled in his boots. There’s something that he’s hiding from her, but the fact that he’s willing to explain himself to her is already leaps and bounds from where she was twenty minutes ago. His eyes fix briefly on a green and purple “RB” on his screen, but he nonetheless returns his gaze to her. “I put my trust in someone I shouldn’t have. Imagine our surprise when this person happens to be the ringleader of the Joker gang’s entire operation. While their actual leader is rotting away in Arkham, here comes Grinner to pick up where the Clown Prince left off.”

“Bruce…,” Cass says quietly, “you can’t blame yourself for this. As cliché as it sounds, we all do, in fact, make mistakes. There’s a reason you branched out your work -- no single person can remain the vigilant protector of the entirety of Gotham City. You know a lot, but you can’t know everything, Bruce. So if you do slip up once in a while, it’s understandable. You made a mistake. But you can always work to fix it -- not by pulling all-nighters, though.” She moves forward and nudges his chair lightly with her own. “You’re doing more to worry us than reassure us that you’re working hard on what you’re supposed to be doing. We all need rest, Bruce. Even the Batman.”

Bruce sighs heavily, his shoulders deflating. He doesn’t move for a long while beyond the rise and fall of his chest from his breathing, but before Cass can even move forward to push her point even further, he turns off the Batcomputer and downs his now-lukewarm tea. He rises on unsteady feet, trying his damndest to hide the sway in his step, but she still sees the minute movement of a frantic search for balance, exemplified in the brief wideness in his eyes. “You’re…” He yawns, and for a moment, Cass is surprised that she finds the cat-like motion to be adorable. “You’re right. C’mon. Let’s get to bed.”

She has no way of knowing for sure if he’s gone to bed after he tucks her in and gives her a lingering look before turning off the light, but she’s got a feeling that Bruce did, in fact, get himself a good eight hours.

* * *

Damian doesn’t take nearly as well to physical therapy as she did. Why would he, after all? The grandchild of Ra’s al Ghul, his magnificent treasure, was not at all used to being confined to a wheelchair for the time being. With the tendons in his left foot severed and ruptured in his right, it would take months for them to fully heal and for Damian to be able to return to active duty. Cass knew he spent his nights in the cave, taking over for Alfred in watching Bruce and keeping him safe, but his dedication to getting better still remains to be seen from the fuss he’s putting up.

At least it’s Alfred who’s administering the therapy and not Rosario, though come to think of it, Cass hasn’t seen him in a while. He had, of course, declared their time together to be over in the wake of a lack of recovery, but insisted that he had left Alfred his special tips-and-tricks should Cass want to continue. Rosario didn’t return to help Damian, but she thinks that’s just because Bruce wants to save money by not rehiring someone who’s already quit. Because if that’s not the case, then the alternative… She’d rather not think about it.

Rather, she’s taken up mentoring Damian, who scoffs and tells her that his therapy is different from hers -- he doesn’t need to spend nearly as much time rolling joints and stretching his legs. It’s only his feet that are wounded, after all. As if she didn’t notice the graze on his red vest, a telltale rip that strayed too close to the heart for comfort. He clearly dodged, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t bullet-born marks across his body from that night.

Damian’s diligence in performance doesn’t translate as a genuine drive to recover, but rather as a means to an end. Tasks to perform in order for his body to recover movement. There’s no passion behind it, but she supposes he might be conserving his energy for… whatever he does in his spare time when he’s done. From what she’s seen, he’s gotten used to the wheelchair, deftly traversing the manor with only the use of his hands. She wishes she could transition to a similar chair, but is content to continue with her daily ritual of reading, speech practice, and people-watching.

It just so happens that Damian’s new omnipresence in the manor makes him a new target for said people-watching, though it takes her a good few weeks to muster up the courage to follow him into his study, a walk-in closet converted into a small office area for someone who was not nearly old enough to need an office in the first place.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t hound her off when she follows, the motorization of her chair making it impossible to sneak up on anybody, unless they were as enraptured in their work as Bruce was some time ago, but the look he throws her clearly states that she’s supposed to keep out of his way. She had, after all, learned that the definition of walk-in closet at Wayne Manor meant ‘an actual room, where you could keep clothes if you wanted to.’

The difference from Bruce’s carefully curated workspace (a term used most loosely) is near jarring when she enters. In place of rows and rows of tightly shelved books she once loosely assumed was fake until she got Rosario to pry Tolstoy’s _War and Peace_ out of a packed shelf, there are, instead, strewn canvases, some haphazardly placed on top of each other, some faced down to hide the work.

The mahogany desk is shoved to a far wall to make space for plastic covered floor -- hell for both of their wheels, to both their dismay -- and an easel in the middle, holding a nearly-finished painting Cass can only assume Damian had worked on in the weeks of hay fever from being holed up in the manor. She watches as he parks his chair in front of the easel and picks up a red paintbrush.

“So this is what you do?” she asks, unable to hold the silence. She thinks she hears him -tt-, but pays the noise no mind. “When you’re… by yourself?”

Damian gives her a Look, but she doesn’t shrink back. Just because they’re ostensibly the same height now doesn’t mean that he gets to condescend. He rolls his eyes. “Yes, I paint.”

She purses her lips, surveying his canvas. There’s certainly an element of abstract art, with wild colors forming to make an unexpectedly realistic form. From the bright reds, greens, yellows, and the deep black, it’s clear the work is meant to be a self-portrait. Except, Cassandra can’t recall Damian having ever been so large and broad. But then her eyes are drawn to the shadow -- a mishmash of the four shades, something small and inconsequential, nearly unnoticeable.

Small, shriveled, sickly-looking. Ah, and there it is.

Cass turns to look at Damian, who scowls and looks away, seeming almost embarrassed that she’s caught onto the meaning of his work. She doesn’t ask if this is how he sees himself. She already knows. And she knows better than to pressure him into introspection -- he’s more likely to snap at her than to create any meaningful discussion out of his own free will.

The hunch in his posture, the aversion to locking eyes with her -- it reminds her of she was nearly a year ago. Cass wonders when the hell she became as well-adjusted as Tim and Duke. She supposes the position of Bat-psychologist was better than Bat-dead-weight, so she sidles up to Damian’s side. “I always wanted to take up painting,” she tells him.

“I didn’t ask,” he responds curtly. But he doesn’t ask her to stop talking, and he doesn’t ask her to leave.

“I always thought I had great color sense… Rosario told me that I _could_ paint, but I’d have to use my mouth. So I thought that it was too much work. But seeing this… This is really pretty. Did your mother teach you how to paint?”

None of them ever talk much about their family, not including Bruce, so she wonders if bringing up Talia was such a good idea in the first place. He doesn’t react angrily, though. Cass supposes it’s because he’s lonely -- he’s always been solitary, preferring to attach himself to his father and Dick’s hips than make more friends than he has to. Before her accident, they had been making some leeway, so it should stand to reason that they can pick up from where they left off.

It shocks her that he even bothers to answer. “My mother wasn’t exactly proactive in my upbringing. She hired tutors throughout my childhood. I learned a great many things from them, including art.” He spoke as if he wasn’t still a child, as per usual, but something about it makes Cass’s heart clench. Though hardly an infant, a child such as Damian shouldn’t be sitting here like this, a hole torn through one ankle and a bullet removed from the other. He shouldn't know thousands of ways to dismember a person, and he shouldn’t have died and come back to life.

Nothing about them and their family is normal, admittedly, but she sees something in Damian -- she sees herself as a little girl, desperate for David’s approval and Shiva’s attention. Born of vicious blood that thrived in violence, both she and Damian were raised to be tools of destruction, and both chose to hurt for good, though word of mouth implied that Damian’s reluctance to reel back on the hurt made others wary.

“Well,” Cass says. “You’re putting your knowledge to use. Maybe you could teach me.”

Damian arches a brow, snatching a brush from a nearby shelf that she’d been eyeing, wincing as he lands back on his bottom. The strain on his legs was too much; she shouldn’t have done that. “Do not put that in your mouth, it’s unsanitary,” he snaps. He hasn’t at all touched his painting, despite a brush in his other hand, and he places both down on the sill of the easel, out of her reach. He sighs, looking very much like his father. “I’ll… ask father to get you some supplies, if you’re really intent on learning.”

As it turns out, he learns the hard way that she’s not actually intent on learning and more so on talking. He had been an expedient teacher, loathe to defiance for all his complaining and sneering on the job, and had shut down all attempts to speak beyond the subject matter for days before she finally broke him down -- more to get her to shut up than actually listening to her.

It takes even longer for him to listen, focused as he is on the material he’s organized. Surprisingly dedicated, Cass marvels at how much she’s actually learned about art history and the principles of art. He’s taken it more seriously than she imagined, but she’s glad that it gives them an opportunity to talk. Though it does take time, she does get him to crack.

He doesn’t say anything major, at first. There’s nothing about his father, or his insecurities. Instead, they compare histories. How he was not-raised by Talia al Ghul to be his grandfather’s perfect apprentice. How she had been David Cain’s rebellion against Mother’s ways, trained in silence to hone body sense. How his mother had failed to care for him as she ought to, outwardly if at all. How her father, despite his selfless sacrifice at the end of his life, had created her to be a proof rather than a daughter.

But in these moments, Cass treasures Damian the most. The brutal honesty that had chafed so many others before was appreciated and valued most. It was reality, it was the depth of emotion others sought to hide and Damian had unabashedly exposed. He never cried, never showed any sign of desperation. Perhaps the degree of anger was unhealthy, but it was more than she’d ever seen from him since, previously all annoyance and superciliousness.

Coincidentally, at the same time they finish their tit for tat, Cass has finished her painting as well.  Damian has never once peeked at her canvas, declaring that art and its beauty “ought only to be beheld after it is complete.” She never pegged him for an art snob in his life, but the humanizing thought still makes him smile. So when she finishes, setting the paintbrush and trying to relax the ache in her jaw from holding it in her mouth for hours, the first thing she does is show him.

His initial reaction is shock. There’s so much on the canvas that it is understandably a lot to take in. She hopes that he likes it -- she tried her hardest to put in a ‘story,’ but wasn’t quite sure if it came across. At the far left of the painting was a dark shape, similar to the shriveled, curled up shadow he’d put in his self-portrait, with the figure slowly learning to stand with streaks of color pouring into him, from blue to red to purple to gray to green to yellow, with the figure at the end of the canvas now in a fighting stance, bo staff in hand.

“Well?” she says, sounding more tentative and meek than she’d intended. He was a harsh critic, after all, but she liked to think she had _some_ sort of backbone. “Do you… do you like it?”

He clears his throat, adjusting his crutches, which he has transferred to once his tendons have repaired themselves enough for him to experiment with walking. His eyes are unreadably stormy, but not full of the acrimony she’d expected, accompanied with some outcry at the audacity she’d had in poaching a part of his personal work to use in her own. Instead, he opens his mouth and pauses. “It… It is adequate.”

High praise in his book. Cass smiles at him, and contents herself with the twitch in the boy’s lips.

* * *

They agree to meet at a coffee shop in downtown Gotham. Cass has Alfred order her two Americanos and sweetly asks him to return the manor, and pick her up when she calls him. It seems fitting that they have their reunion outside, in public, in the place that had caused their trouble in the first place, and alone. As much as Cass now appreciates moral support, there are some things she has to do by herself, and speaking to Steph is one of them.

She sits there for seven minutes before Steph shows up, blurting out an apology as the buses were running late. Cass knows. She read the lips of a news reporter on the TV inside the shop talking about one of Grinner’s shootouts at a bank. Not surprising that public transportation would have to make a huge detour around the scene of a crime that is not yet resolved. Cass accepts her apology for being late with what she hopes is a gracious smile, and dips her head at the empty chair she had been saving for her.

“You’re looking well,” she says when Steph nods her thanks for the drink and raises it to her lips. She ought to have waited for Steph to swallow, because all she gets in response are raised eyebrows and a frantic nod.

When Steph gets her Americano down her throat, she speaks. “I, uh, I did some thinking. And Tim and Duke came to speak to me, too.” That surprises Cass. They hadn’t said anything about talking to Steph, and if their forced intervention was anything to go by, they certainly weren’t pulling any punches with the blonde, either.

“So,” Cass says, and leaves it there because she doesn’t know how to go on. Part of her thinks it may be a mistake, coming here and seeing her so soon (but is it soon? She’s lost count of the days). Maybe she should’ve asked Alfred to stay, to play mediator in case things became too heated. But Cass doesn’t like making a public scene, and she can hazard a guess that Steph doesn’t either.

“So,” Steph repeats. It seems she doesn’t know quite what to say either. Her eyes flicker under her lids as she closes them, seemingly arranging words in her head. Cass is glad that Steph doesn’t have a whole speech prepared. It means they’re both going into this fresh, and she’s always like Steph more when she was flying by the seat of her pants.

They both open their mouths at the same time, but Steph speaks first. “I’m sorry. I guess I should say that first. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I… let my prejudices get the better of me, that I undervalued you. I thought I was trying to help you, but I was wrong. I was being inconsiderate and unkind, and you deserved better from me than that. So I’m sorry.”

Cass closes her mouth, letting her head lean back against the chair. The chair that Steph had thought of as a cage, something she needed to be free from. Her natural instinct is to immediately accept the apology, but it seems that there was more that Steph wanted to say, so she nods instead, letting the gesture be both an offer to continue and a confirmation of her feelings.

“I thought a lot about the… implications of what happened between us,” Steph continues uncertainly. She’s losing her place now, going off-script -- not that it seemed like she had much of one in the first place. “After Duke and Tim talked to me, I was angry. I thought you’d sent them, but that was unfair of me to you. You wouldn’t do something like that. So I thought. I thought about what was wrong in my thinking, in what I was seeing wrong that would make two people completely unrelated to this problem come…” She laughs a little. “Come after me like that.

“The point I’m trying to make is that I understand now. I know that you’re not… broken. I know there’s nothing to fix, that you aren’t any worse just because you can’t do things that you used to. I know that now. And I’m sorry for ever doubting you in the first place. I hope that you can forgive me.”

Her piece said, Steph folds her hands in her lap and turns back to her drink, occupying her mouth so that she won’t have to elaborate further. Cass wasn’t going to force her to. It’s not the most perfect apology, but it’s one that she’s willing to accept. Steph really has missed her -- she can see by the way she occasionally flickers to look at Cass when she thinks Cass isn’t paying attention (except Cass has been raised from birth to see only the boyd, so Cass is always paying attention), the way her fingers clench and unclench around the plastic cup, and when they lay flat on the table, she always flexes them, stretching them towards Cass. She doesn’t think it’s her place to initiate any contact, but if Cass had any say, she’d be the one reaching out first.

Cass herself has done some thinking. She had thought about whether she ought to forgive Steph for her transgressions -- a point she had also brought up with Damian, who scoffed and said that she ought to cut out anyone who belittled her to such a degree. Clearly the words were harsh and emotion ridden, and Damian eventually admitted that Steph was a valuable ally, if, in his words, a bit ‘ditzy.’ It was obvious that the boy’s advice wasn’t always the best course of action, and while Cass had considered cutting Steph off in favor of her own recovery, she knew that she still felt hollow because of her absence.

If nothing else, she wanted closure, which was why she agreed to meet. It wasn’t on her agenda to forgive, but there was the greater part of her brain that told her to, that insisted she had to. The better part of her life had been spent relying on her instincts, so, she supposed, that was what she ought to do now.

“I forgive you,” she says to Steph, making the other girl jump. She’s surprised by the words that came out of Cass’s mouth. She thought she was going to be chased away. “I can… I can see you have tried hard to get rid of your prejudices. That you were willing to think them over says a lot about you… about us. I don’t know if I’m ready to be your… your girlfriend again, but I’m ready to be friends. We can start over from this.”

Steph nods frantically again, needing to swallow her drink before speaking. “Yes!” She’s a little louder than intended, making a few heads turn in their direction. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Cass, it means a lot to me.” She reaches forward and clasps Cass’s right hand between her own. “I promise, I will work every day not to disappoint you again. I swear. I’m going to work my butt off to… to get us back to where we were.” She squeezes Cass’s hand as she speaks. Cass thinks the pressure enveloping her hand is nothing more than a phantom feeling, but there’s always wishful thinking.

“I’m holding you to that,” Cass says, smiling weakly at her. Steph returns the grin with twice as much wattage, and Cass thinks that those might be tears wetting her eyes. She’s not sure what they’re supposed to do now -- only one of them can jump for joy, though Cass wouldn’t have done so if she was capable anyway.

Whatever it was, this road to recovery, they were going to take it one step at a time. And this time, Steph was fully and readily by her side.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass rediscovers.

Cass is aware that sometimes when driving up to the manor, the groceries like to roll on their sides and occasionally spill in a car that is too big for them. She’s told Alfred time and time again that he ought to buckle them up in a seat, but he’s waved off her concerns with a simple reassurance: “I’ll pick them up and wash them, if the lint is what you’re worried about, Miss Cassandra.”

It’s not, but she lets the conversation drop. After all, who is she to tell Alfred how to run his house? He’s got decades of experience in the service industry on her, and she’s still not quite sure how he and a small handful of staff she rarely sees anyways keeps the manor running. She’s not even sure if the maids and the gardener know about their double life, though she doesn’t imagine they’d need to know anyway.

Instead, she takes to observing him whenever she can. It isn’t as though she’s doing it to take over his job eventually -- she’s not in a position to be helping anyone clean the house, least of all since Rosario’s gone. Her new trainer, Damian’s also, is a lot more clinical, less friendly, but no less diligent, so she cannot complain. Part of her misses Rosario, but her instincts tell her not to. She was raised from birth not to get attached, but look where that’s gotten her.

She observes Alfred because she realizes that the one she’s spent the most time with is still yet the member of the household whom she’s never really gotten to know. Like Bruce, or so she imagines, she’s taken him for granted. Regardless of their unfamiliarity, Alfred has become something of an omniscient omnipresence. 

Over time she’s come to regard him as a father figure, though she supposes the distance between them mirrors her own relationship with David, with whom she was nothing more than a tool. She’s sure that Alfred obviously doesn’t see her that way, but it’s still bothersome to know that they’re so far apart when they needn’t be. He helps her relieve herself every day; there shouldn’t be any sort of distance between them whatsoever.

Cue his surprise when she asks if she can accompany him to the supermarket. He figures she’s just restless from months indoors, the occasional excursion with Steph and the boys notwithstanding. After all, there’s only so much fun she can have before being absolutely drained. Grocery shopping was objectively no fun at all. But it was a necessary task, if they were to feed themselves for the next week.

There isn’t much for her to do there except putter around behind him, but it’s still admirable, the carefulness at which he goes about picking the food. She watches, enraptured, by the time he takes selecting watermelons, flicking them and raising them to his ear. Part of her is amused by her own wonder -- she had no idea ripe food was so hard to come by, if the number of rejects Alfred amounted were anything to go by. She’d always eaten whatever was put in front of her, before and after she came to live with Bruce.

There wasn’t an inkling in her mind that the cuisine she’d tasted after arriving at Wayne Manor (no matter how differently her taste buds reacted) that such a deeply intensive choosing process was involved. 

“How long does this normally take?” she had asked the first time she went with him. Immediately afterward, she’d clarified that she was curious, not bored, to his amusement. She learns that if he wanted to, he could spend hours at the supermarket if he wanted to, and then some at the farmer’s market, but in the interest of time, he cuts each visit to an hour. It puzzles her -- it seems Bruce hardly cares what goes into his system so long as it gives him energy in the long run, but Alfred’s meticulous practice is still something to be admired.

Now, three consecutive trips later, it’s almost mechanical in the way that she goes with him. Though she can’t exactly check quality like he can, she’s developed an eye for ripeness. Alfred’s tactility combined with her vision ultimately leads to the expedition of grocery shopping to an alarming amount, and they’re back at Wayne Manor before an hour passes. Which is why she’s so concerned now about the groceries.

Every so often, when he doesn’t think that she’s looking, Alfred will give the clock in the car a surprised little glance, as if shocked by how small the number actually is. If he were on his own, he’d still be ambling along the produce section, but now he’s helping her first out of the car and into the manor.

He’s not used to it, she realizes. Cass wonders if he’s ever really gotten used to his new duties. While she did spend some weeks away from home in the hospital as they familiarized her with her new lifestyle of using mouthsticks and relying on others for menial tasks. From what she understood, Alfred had undergone some learning on his own, but the adjustment was something the two of them had to make together. 

A relatively new lodger in Wayne Manor, there was still that level of discomfort between the two of them. Their boundaries had to be crossed quickly due to the requirements of Alfred’s job, which went beyond common aid and into assistance with bathing and bowel movements. She had thought they were familiar with each other, but upon further consideration, he treats her as cordially as everyone else. They’ve never really gotten to know each other beyond caretaker and cared-for, which is why she’s been so adamant about helping him prepare food.

She learns many things about him as he’s making dinner and tomorrow’s lunch, a simple plate of spaghetti with white sauce, chicken, and mushrooms. Cass has never really known how chatty Alfred can get, though she supposes that he’s only relieved at having someone speak to him at all throughout his day as he works. Their vocal lessons notwithstanding, the most of their communication amounts to translated glances and that sort of telepathic connection he seems to have with everybody he’s serving. But she also learns that he’s got a mouth on him too, head jerking abruptly as she hears him curse for the first time when he burns himself tasting the sauce.

Alfred has always seemed so much like a robot in their interactions, but it’s refreshing to know that even he, in his wise old age (though she doesn’t really think him that old), can still accidentally hurt himself in an overeagerness to taste food. It’s rather humanizing, and while she chastises herself for falling into the trap of dehumanizing her help, it’s still something that Alfred lets down his facade of being a perfect butler around her.

She brings up the point to him eventually, with a bit of noted shyness, and he returns with a bit of surprise before smiling gently. “Of course I would,” he says. “I’m sorry if I haven’t done my part in making you feel welcome, Miss Cassandra. You’re as much family to me as any of Master Bruce’s other associates.”

Cass flushes, feeling embarrassed for not realizing the affinity he had been extending sooner. Maybe they were on different wavelengths, after all. But it was still heartwarming to know that Alfred considered her a daughter too. There was the odd time when she felt envious of his affection shared with the others, curbed slightly with Damian due to the boy’s natural propensity towards prickliness. “No, I’m sorry -- I suppose I’m a little… Dense. When it comes to things like this.”

“Well don’t worry your head overmuch about it,” he tells her, patting her on the top of her head as he moves to place the two heads of cabbage she’d helped him select in the fridge. “Just know that I’ll always be here for you, Miss Cassandra.”

“Call me Cass,” she blurts, cheeks still red from the gesture. “Everyone else does.”

Alfred looks a little surprised, but again schools his expression into one of kindness and understanding. “Very well, if that’s what you want. Cass.” The name is tacked on as an afterthought, but it still makes her smile.

The next week, she watches in bemusement as Alfred opens the other side door and slides the reusable plastic bag into the chair beside her and buckles it in. He doesn’t say anything, but shares a conspiratorial wink with her as he closes the door and slides into the driver’s seat.

* * *

Cass can tell that Steph is regarding the little makeshift wooden cross with a critical eye. It’s clear she wonders if they had nothing better to give David, but at the same time thinks that he needn’t deserve a headstone anyways. She’s made her distaste of Cass’s father rather apparent, especially after knowing fully the training from hell she’d went through at his behest.

But the grave is symbolic if nothing else, a nondescript fraction of the Wayne family’s massive plot, David’s corpse not at all buried beneath it. Cass has never visited it beyond the first time she’d decided she wanted to memorialize her father.

Paternity was a point of contention that was never really something Cass and Steph agreed on, no matter how compatible they found themselves. While both had worked against their fathers in the end, choosing the side of good over family ties, the culmination of their relationships with their fathers were on opposing ends of the spectrum.

Steph decided to become Spoiler in order to foil her father’s plans, and continued on her vigilante work intent on preventing any sort of crime whatsoever. While Cass joined her in that career and with similar vigor, she still found it in herself to forgive David Cain even just a little for what had been done to her. In the end, her father had sacrificed himself to prevent any harm coming to others ever again from Mother. That in itself was worthy of some respect, though Steph would protest that notion.

In her eyes, the things David had done in training Cass, the mental strain as well as the physical, and his attempt in keeping her docile and silent by preventing speech and literacy, was far more heavy-handed in deciding his redeemability, heedless of whatever he had chosen to do at the end of his life. And to a degree, Cass agreed. What her father did left scars -- and she knew that well. But that didn’t mean she was incapable of forgiveness,  the greatest form of strength, which David never saw fit to teach her.

So she forgave her father, and had him buried on the same land as Bruce’s family, and Dick’s, and Jason’s. There was no name on the small, unnoticeable grave tucked into the corner of the field by the crypt, but at the very least, Cass knew who was lain to rest there.

When she’d arrived with Steph, she was surprised by the fact that there were a couple of flowers placed before the cross. Steph had said that people often extended their own floral gifts when visiting their family’s graves, but the only people surrounding were Bruce’s family. She decides not to press Steph when the girl blanches at the purple jasmines wrapped in a neat, green ribbon. Cass is well aware that they’re hiding something from her, but figures they’ll tell her whenever they’re ready. Secrets were abundant in the manor, but not without reason.

She sits unmoving in front of the grave for what feels like hours, but must realistically be more around ten minutes, trying to figure out what to say. It was a thing to do, wasn’t it? To visit one’s deceased family and catch them up on their lives. But where was she to start? She may have referred to David Cain as her father (mentally, if nothing else), but they had never been particularly close in the way that family ought to have been.

He never asked her how her day was, mostly because she wouldn’t respond, but also because he simply didn’t care. It was the opposite of Bruce’s relationship with Cass -- though they were only linked professionally, he had taken it upon himself to take a vested interest in her overall well being and day to day life, even if he was too tired to contribute much to conversation. As far as David Cain was concerned, the fact that Cassandra would live to fight another day was all that mattered.

A better trainer than he was a father, there wasn’t much Cass could say that would probably please David much from the afterlife. 

Steph asks her if she’d like some privacy after a while, but Cass declines. She instead lets Steph take her hand and thread their fingers together. Silence sits over her still for the next few moments, but she finds that there needn’t be a script to her words. She ought to just speak from the heart, even though logic and pragmatism had been her lifeblood for so long. It was better, so she had learned from her stay in Wayne manor anyway, to do as instinct told her.

“Hello, father,” is what she opens with. It’s dry, and she can see out of the corner of her eye that Steph squeezes her hand. “It’s… been a long time since we have seen each other. I apologize for not being around often, but. Well. Moving around has been difficult for me, as of late.”

Not that he generally would’ve allowed that to stop her. She decides to leave that part out of her little speech.

“Truth be told, I’m not even quite sure why I’m here. There’s a lot that I want to say, but I’m sure that none of it is something you’d like to hear. Especially if you were still alive.” Steph removes her hand and moves behind the chair to put her hands on either side of Cass’s shoulders, massaging gently. “I suppose I just wanted… to let you know how I’m doing. To update you on my progress.

“I know I was supposed to be a finished product. Something to show Mother that the old methods worked just as well, requiring completion as soon as possible. But I’ve learned over time that there will always be room for improvement. For instance, my verbosity.” She hears Steph snort a little above her.

“I’m doing well. I have a family now. A surrogate father, and his father too, so I suppose that means I have a surrogate grandfather. I have a great many brothers, too, though I know at least one that would be… hesitant to refer to me as sister. And the person I brought with me means a lot to me. I hope I mean as much to her as she does to me. She hasn’t done anything to prove me wrong just yet.”

She cranes her head and chuckles when Steph averts her gaze from the top of Cass’s head to offer David’s grave a little wave. “So that is my life,” Cass continues. “Nothing I’m sure that would impress you, but… I’m content. Things could be better, but I’ve made my peace with life. I’m not going to waste time wishing for another world. I’m happy.”

She feels Steph squeezing her shoulders again. There’s slightly more pressure, but it’s a good kind of pressure. “I’m very happy with my life as it is. And… if you were any bit the good father I imagined you were, you’d be happy for me too. I hope you are. Wherever you are.”

Cass lets her head rest against Steph’s forearm. Her eyes droop closed and she sighs. “I guess that’s it.” She doesn’t leave yet when Steph asks her if she wants to go. They’ve only just got here, and spent maybe a good three minutes on a speech declaring her life was nearly as perfect as it could possibly be. “Can we just sit here?” she asks. Steph hums in an affirmative and sits down beside her, cross legged. She snorts, then tells Cass it was out of relief in realizing that she hadn’t parked the chair in mud.

The next twenty minutes they spend at the Cemetery is quiet save for their breathing, but the wisp of wind that brushes the grass makes her wonder if they really are as alone as she thought they were.

* * *

Bruce isn’t in the Batcave that night. Whatever case he’d spent those sleepless weeks working on seems to have solved itself quite nicely, or at least decided to be inactive for the night, and he is instead occupying his time filling out neglected paperwork. Some part of her thought that Alfred was the one doing whatever Bruce Wayne needed to be done while Batman was off preventing supervillainy, but that would’ve been silly. Spoilt as he was, Bruce wasn’t going to force all of his work onto Alfred, regardless of his dual professions. His hardworking nature wouldn’t have given him the idea of convenience in the first place.

He’s so absorbed into his work that he doesn’t hear her knock on the heavy wooden doors of his study with her chair, forcing her to resort to shouting. It’s late, and she doesn’t want to raise her voice, but she hears him quickly slide out of his chair with the screech of wood against wood, and she rolls slightly backward when he opens the door.

“I’m so sorry,” Bruce says, and steps aside to let her inside the study. There are two piles of paper on his desk -- filled and unfilled, from what she can tell -- and his fountain pen lays on the seat of his chair. “I didn’t hear you. Were you out there long?”

Cass shakes her head. “How long have you been working?”

Bruce rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “God, I don’t know.” He looks at the clock, and his eyes widen slightly though she notes he stops himself from recoiling in surprise. He’s also quick to mute his actions, these days. Not due to a need to look mature or professional but rather out of tiredness. Bruce’s late nights have him fatigued, slathering makeup on his face to hide dark circles and newly formed lines. He hasn’t had a night out to himself for a while, but knows that he’s planning some sort of fundraising gala for the manor in a few weeks time. She doesn’t think it’s a good idea but she also doesn’t say anything.

“A while,” she surmises, and Bruce agrees with a hum. She observes him as he takes a seat in the chair, quickly standing up once he’s realized he was sitting on his pen. It seems he’s sprained something, his movements slowed and calculated. He’s trying not to put too much weight on his ankle and on his wrist, carefully setting his arm down on the desk as he returns to some form with a lot of boxes.

“Is there something you needed?” he asks, attention fully divided between his mountain of work and Cassandra’s own presence. Nearby there’s a padding of feet -- someone looking for a midnight snack, she supposes. Bruce has a cup of coffee near him, but judging by the lack of steam it seems to be lukewarm at best. She thinks about offering to get him another cup. Alfred is asleep, though, so she thinks better of it. “What’s keeping you up, Cassandra?”

She thought about having a whole speech prepared. Some long prologue leading up to the true meat of the conversation she was attempting to have with him. But Bruce wasn’t someone you beat around the bush with. More often than not, he’d just snap at you to get to the point, so she takes a deep breath instead.

This has been something weighing heavily on her mind for a while -- even before the accident. Before, she was nothing but another agent to Batman. Sure, to some degree he cared about all his associates. But she was a covert operative. Nothing like the Robins he’d raised or the Oracle who informed him. Eventually she’d gotten herself roped into his band of misfits. Then her father died, and she took up his name.

Effectively alone in the world, Bruce had subsequently offered her a place in his brood. It was an offer she took seriously, and it seemed to be something he was seriously offering. But there was always the part of her that remained loyal to her true family, however despicable and deceased he was. To join another so soon after David’s passing was something difficult to her. It was like abandoning her old life, which she thought she had no right to do. Bruce was persistent, but not overbearing. He brought up the notion of adoption many times, but was always quick to retreat when it appeared that Cass was getting uncomfortable with the notion -- which was almost always.

She did her research, too. Though exceedingly difficult, it could be done. It wasn’t easy for single parents to get custody over an adoptive child, unless a will of some sorts was involved, but Bruce had already managed it multiple times, and was far too rich for any one person to be, so she supposed that he could bribe the right people if he really wanted to into letting her be adopted by him. More often than not, his opulence was a blessing, despite the lack of privacy it afforded him.

It had taken a while, but taking recent events into account, she finally made her decision. “I was hoping to speak with you… about the topic of adoption,” she says. There are better openers than that, to be sure, but Bruce would probably rather not hear them anyways. It’s better to be blunt with him, however much he can snark in return as a result. “It’s been a while since we discussed it. And I’ve been giving it some thought.”

Wit those words, she’s captured his attention. He sets the fountain pen to the side, careful not to let ink splotch all over the paper he’s working on. Bruce claps his hands in front of him, critical and sharp eyes turning to stare at her. “Yes, of course,” he says. “That’s always been an option, Cassandra.” There’s something twinkling in his gaze -- not quite an I told you so, but something close to it. He knew it would come to this, he was just waiting for her to come around to the idea on her own.

She’s not quite sure whether that’s comforting or not.

Regardless, Cass powers on. “I know that.” She offers a smile. “I guess part of the reason why I was so hesitant was because I didn’t want to feel like I was shelving away my problems into another life, another family. That I could just box everything up and label it Cain and when it moved on to Wayne, I could be something different. But that wouldn’t have been fair. Not to myself, and not to the people I hurt in that life. So I was trying my hardest to hold onto the identity of Cassandra Cain for as long as possible.

“But then I started thinking, and I realized that it didn’t have to be that way. I would be turning over a new leaf, yes, but it wasn’t as if I’d just be throwing everything else under the carpet.” There’s a hint of amusement in his eyes. She must’ve gotten the phrase wrong, but she doesn’t let the realization deter her. “I realized that Cassandra Cain and Cassandra Wayne could peacefully coexist, and also that I wouldn’t even need to take a different last name anyways. Like Dick. It was… stupidly convoluted of me, I admit.

“I guess part of me was also looking for excuses to not accept, for whatever subconscious reason. But it’s not like any of that matters now. I’ve made up my mind.” She takes a deep breath. “I’d like to be formally adopted by you.”

Bruce smiles, and through his grin she can fully see how tired he actually is. There are creases around his eyes that she hasn’t noticed before, the furrow between his brows deepened. But it’s still an expression of mirth on his face, and he’s emoting positively. “Absolutely,” he says, still looking like the cat that got the cream. “I’ll… contact my lawyers in the morning.” He looks again at the clock, humorous dismay clouding his features briefly. “...Later in the morning.”

Cass finds herself beaming back at him. A new start was what he had promised her, and now he’s going even further to give her a new civilian life as well. Her existence at Wayne Manor was relatively secret -- people knew he’d taken up a new lodger, but they weren’t going to ask questions when they didn’t even know what this lodger looked like. Cass is sure that she’s been seen at least once leaving the manor, but he might’ve bought back any pictures from the paparazzi to protect her privacy.

Thus, she shared a lower level of publicity than Dick and Damian, and was able to spend time with Duke and Tim without arousing much attention. That might change once she was formally adopted and word got out, but she was prepared for it -- or so she hoped.

So it’s done. The conversation was relatively painless considering what she was expecting, though it wasn’t like Bruce to string her along anyway. And now it’s over. It feels as though a huge weight has been lifted off her chest, consternation and months upon months of wondering if choosing a new life would be the right choice. Whatever it was, she could still take it back -- but she doesn’t want to. That’s how she knows she made the right choice.

Cass bids Bruce a good night and makes her way back to her bedroom, where Steph sits on her side of the bed with her homework sprawled out in front of her. She’s not doing any of it, more dazed and tired, but at Cass’s approach, she slips off the bed and helps her in.

That night, she sleeps more peacefully than she has in a long time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass considers.

They have another little party to commemorate Cass’s officially joining the family. It’s a lot less awkward than the first ‘get well soon’ get together, probably because it’s a lot easier to maneuver around everyone, who’s gotten used to Cass’s introversion and level of comfort.

She helped Alfred prepare the meal by being a living timer and recipe book (which surprised her, because she didn’t think someone with as much ‘world experience’ as Alfred would ever need to use a cookbook). So it wasn’t as much of a one-sided affair as the last one, with all the food prepared by a caterer with a select few guests left to mingle with each other and hopefully cheer up Cass alone.

This time, they’re all cheerful together.

Dick and Barbara chat about their civilian professions -- Dick ‘complains’ about having become  a professional dog-walker for a day when he got his K9 partner, Barbara talks about the shifty old woman who refuses to maintain eye contact while checking out certain less than pure books and how difficult it is to work on her thesis while also trying not to crack up at the title ‘Rough and Ready.’

Cassandra asks her about South Africa. It’s not as if she’s going to throw everything away and fly there as soon as possible if she gets an answer that she likes, but it’s still good to keep her options open. Granted, Barbara was paraplegic and not quadriplegic, but the idea was that if the spine wasn’t severed, then recovery was possible. Given her own dubious treatment, Cass thought it was safe to figure out a backup plan if she ever really wanted to go back to her life of wetwork.

Oh, who was she kidding? Of course she wanted to go back. But South Africa wasn’t going to be a fix-it. In addition to the surgery, which only had a 30% success rate, including Barbara, she’d have to go through months and months of more physical therapy. At the state that she was at now, she was performing minimal exercise so that her limbs wouldn’t atrophy, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready to jump back into something strenuous again just yet. Despite her previous occupation, it was still okay for her to take a break, after all.

Cass listens patiently as Barbara explains the process, detailing first the procedure and its intended effects, then the physical therapy regimen that ensued. The results on Barbara seem fabulous -- she’s regained full mobility of her legs, and is able to pick up where her career as Batgirl left off, doing flips and soaring all over Gotham City. Cass could only hope to get Orphan back to that state.

But it wasn’t a necessity. Barbara nods when Cass expresses this sentiment, patting her on the knee. “Whatever makes you happiest, Cass. That’s all that matters.”

As it turns out, she receives presents at the party too. She had no idea that was something Bruce had told the guests, but it was evidently mandatory, since everyone gave something to her. It’s all little things -- there’s no need for housewarming gifts considering how long she’s lived there. Still, she appreciates the little decals that Steph personalized for her. Her rooms been far too empty, even with Stephanie Brown as an occasional ornament. Dick gets her one of those cheesy ‘coupon for your parents’ books from Barnes & Noble, telling her that he’s jealous that kids these days no longer have to make them out of crayon and printer paper, winking and suggesting that she uses the ‘free hug’ one most often, since the ‘clean your room pass’ doesn’t even apply.

Barbara gets her a tablet with voice recognition so she can read without having someone turn the page, finally, and Bruce looks a little sheepish at the fact that he hadn’t even made that investment earlier. Duke and Tim, with their high school student allowances, pool together to get her a gift card to the diner. She wonders when she’s ever going to spend seventy five dollars there, but she supposes that it’s enough for about three visits if she’s not alone. 

She considers the whole party itself to be a present from Bruce and Alfred, but it turns out that they’ve decided to give her something she doesn’t think she deserves at all. Every day, she passes by a portrait of Bruce’s parents hanging in the foyer, and everyone who knows anything about Gotham knows that the Wayne pearls are the most valuable thing that they’ve ever owned. The necklace was first torn at Martha Wayne’s murder, but Bruce spent many years of his life hiring gutter rats to find every bead that fell through the grate, and eventually, with a new band, he’s been able to piece it all together.

That’s not what he gives to her. Instead, he hands an open necklace box to her with a beautiful sapphire pendant inside. It’s a piece of his mother’s jewelry; that much is obvious. Cass protests, saying that she’s doesn’t think that she ought to receive it. It’s a family heirloom, not to be given away so carelessly, but Bruce waves off her concerns. He tells her that every one of his kids has gotten something from the Wayne family’s jewelry -- Dick has his father’s signet ring, Duke and Tim have watches, Damian is poised to receive his grandfather’s cufflinks, and even Jason has a rosary tucked away somewhere. With some reluctance, she gets Steph to put it on her.

By far and away, the biggest present she gets in terms of size is from Damian. It’s this big rectangular thing covered in brown paper, and Steph has to be extra careful (in Damian’s words, with his scrunched nose and haughtiness included) in removing it. It’s very obvious that it’s a work of art, and Cass feels rather flattered by the fact that he’s taken time out of his busy schedule to draw something other than himself.

His healing is coming along quite nicely, and he can even put weight on both feet now, meaning he spends less time in his little study painting and more time overexerting himself. She’s taught him how to curb his boundaries, teaching him how to hone his physique without actually damaging himself more than he already is. She didn’t think her knowledge of tai chi would come in handy in a family full of crimefighters who have trained in all sorts of martial arts, but she finds that Damian’s bare knowledge of the art form, neglected in favor of more violent and thus more practical (though practicality, she supposes, is relative), means that he’s still ignorant enough to be a student.

Anything to get him to recover while also expending that energy he’s built up over the time it’s taken for the flesh to heal. His tendons will never be the same, ruptured as they are, but he’s far from having to use the chair he’d been confined to not so long ago.

Leading Cass to wonder when he’d even had time to paint something for her. Between his homeschooling, his physical therapy, and his time down in the Batcave serving as mission control, it didn’t seem he had many opportunities to draw her so accurately, and without her noticing as well. She wouldn’t put it past him to have photographic memory, though, so she doesn’t question it. It would probably just publicly embarrass him, and as enticing as the thought sounds, she’s endeared herself quite a lot to him and would rather stay in his good graces.

Steph lets out an appreciative whistle when she peels away the paper, holding up the painting for everyone else to see. Cass hears Dick let out a little ‘ooh,’ which gets him slapped on the arm by the youngest, mumbling something about being embarrassing. ‘Ooh,’ she also thinks but doesn’t verbalize.

The image seems to be her as a dryad, with her torso and head human, but from her elbows below a tree. There’s a lot of greens, monochrome and thus a bit of a departure from his bright, erratic colors. Instead, the picture features more mellowed hues, harkening more to the forest-like imagery. Her lower half twists into roots, with white flowers littering the bark. Her eyes are shut as the sun shines on her face, her upper half emerging from a tree that connects from her arms and continues rising from her back.

Cass looks at Damian, who suddenly seems preoccupied with scuffing his shoes on the floor. She smiles when he decides to look up, and says very sincerely, “Thank you.”

“Mm-hmm,” Damian says in response. When Dick nudges his shoulder, he adds, “You’re welcome.”

Later that night, she gets Steph and Damian to help her hang it on the wall. It was a valiant effort, considering their height difference, but after some squabbling and a toppled chair, Bruce decides it’s better if he steps in and he nails and hangs it within five minutes. Steph and Damian don’t even watch him do it, too busy fuming at each other. Cass thinks it’s funny, so neither of them find much of a reason to be angry afterward.

* * *

“So it was him all along, wasn't it?” Cass asks. She already knows the answer, had figured it out long before anyone had bothered to tell her. It’s funny that Steph is the one who tried to approach her with the information, but it was nice of them to even bother, considering she was ‘formally retired.’  


Steph nods, worrying at her lower lip. All things considered, she seems relieved that Cass has been taking the news so well. But that probably has to do with the fact that she’d figured it out from the beginning. So it seems like Steph doesn’t actually have to do any damage control after all. Cass isn’t sure why she thought she would have to in the first place. She wasn’t that much of an overreactor, was she?

In the wake of the investigation’s close, Bruce saw it fit to release the information gathered and results slowly to the members of his family who were unaware of the full situation -- namely, Cass. Who had already suspected. The whole thing was redundant, but thankful that they thought of her, she decided to humor them.

“I… I didn’t really suspect him,” Cass admits, “not until he left, anyway. Kind of obvious when the crime rate goes up. I don’t know what he was doing here though. I’d find it hard for someone like him to have a day job like that.”

Steph shrugs. “We suspected he was doing recon around the mansions, seeing if he could steal anything from Bruce. He gave no indications of knowing Batman’s identity, so it wasn’t as if he was targeting the Batman specifically. But we won’t know now, since he’s… Y’know. Gone.”

“Right.” Cass wants to wring her hands; she’s so uncomfortable. The conversation seemed like a good idea at first but now she’s not sure how to act. Should she be sad? Societal conventions dictate that she should, but the truth is that she was suspicious from the very beginning. 

Maybe that’s why she wasn’t actually getting better, though. A credible physical therapist was one of the ingredients to a successful recovering. But maybe that was just her being bitter towards Rosario for his betrayal.

The revelation that he was the person behind the Joker Gang’s revival while their leader was still imprisoned in Arkham (for the time being, she thinks dryly) should’ve been something that shocked and hurt her. After all, this was the man who had dedicated months of his life to evidently helping her recover, but it also happened that his nightlife included robbing banks and holding hostages.

She supposes that the overwhelming optimism and the grins were the aftereffects of some nasty encounter with Joker gas, or just a manifestation of the man’s insanity in it of itself. Not to say that all happy people were clown-loving psychopaths. Just a possibility.

It should hurt, she thinks. She had once thought they’d built a rapport between them, two people trying to achieve the same goal. But in the end, when Rosario had quit because of a lack of progress, she felt as though their entire friendship went down the damn drain. They’d both worked so hard (or so she thought), and here he was giving up. Part of that was what made her want to give up, too, but she didn’t.

“Cass,” Steph murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

Steph seems slightly taken aback. “I don’t know… I always thought you two were friends?”

Cass purses her lips. “Well… Maybe once upon a time. But I think towards the end we kind of grew apart. Now I know why.” She ought to be reeling from the realization, but she isn’t. What Rosario did had nothing to do with her, and the suspected crime of robbing Wayne Manor wasn’t a crime that had been performed, so it wasn’t as if she could judge him for it. What she could judge him for was the obscene amount of money in damages he’d caused to Gotham City and the many late night reports she could hear Dick watching whenever he was in, sleeping on the couch.

It’s at times like these that her father would’ve reprimanded her for trusting a stranger so easily. The life of a covert operative like her demanded that she never put her faith in anyone she didn’t know truly well. Rosario, as it happened, was distant and vague and altogether too unknown for what she assumed would’ve been David Cain’s liking. If she’d been at the top of her game, there would’ve been something inherently suspicious about him. But she’d had her own emotional distress to deal with at the time, so she hadn’t bothered to look into Rosario, or ask Bruce to look into him.

Looks like he was a lot smarter than she thought.

Part of her think she discredited Rosario too much while they were still acquainted. Now he’s a completely different person, but she only has herself to blame for not noticing sooner. Oh well. What’s done is done. From what Steph has told her, he’s been put away in the same place his boss is being kept. There’s an internal countdown running to their breakout, but for the time being Gotham seems to be safe from the Joker and his cohorts.

“I guess,” Steph murmurs, seemingly dissatisfied with her response.

Right, she’s always valued friendship more than that. While Cass learned to keep people at a respectful distance unless she was sure that the person in question would be someone who would stay with her for the long run. Hence why her separation from Steph took such a toll on her. She’d allowed her to get that close and when she was forcibly removed from her side, Cass had very nearly shut down.

But her relationship with Rosario was never quite that close. They ought to be that intimate, she supposes, because he had been so instrumental in helping her right after the accident. But they never really got that attached. It was a two-sided affair, of course. Cass decided not to get close to Rosario because although he was a talker, he was never one to bare himself to her. There was always a wall that no amount of loquaciousness was going to be able to tear down. So there really wasn’t something to mourn, since there wasn’t quite a friendship in the first place.

Still a bit jarring, though, to know that she was so close to danger and she was so unaware, for the time that it was near. She feels as though she’s been lacking in her training, though it’s not like she can train anything except her senses, excluding tactility. She thinks about investing some more time into the Batfamily’s business, perhaps picking up the title of Oracle, if Barbara would allow it to her.

Just a thought.

“Well,” Steph says as the silence persists, “I didn’t mean to get you so down like this.” She reaches over and squeezes Cass’s knee. “How ‘bout we go out to eat? My treat.”

Cass refuses; they end up using the gift card instead.

* * *

Cass doesn’t actually like the garden that much, but the fresh air is often something desperately needed. She’s been spending less time out because of the cold, but the one time in September that she does sit out there is when the manor is paid a little impromptu visit. He doesn’t come through the front door like a normal person (or at least, she doesn’t hear him do so) but instead wanders into the garden and invades her little bubble of solitude with his boots crunching against the gravel.  


“I heard you got scooped up too,” Jason Todd says, taking a seat on the stone bench nearby. Cass closes her eyes and sighs. Here she was hoping for some peace and quiet. She knows he’d leave if she told him to, but that seemed rude. “Another one of his baby birds. ‘Cept I guess your name tells it like it is.”

Orphan. That’s what Bruce’s M.O. was after all, wasn’t it? Defied by Tim and by Damian, but Bruce himself was an orphan, trying to gather all of his lookalikes into one big family. Cass was simply the latest addition to that lineup. But nothing about the process or the life she’d been living with him suggested that it was anything this superficial or twisted. They were a family, simple as that. She knows that Bruce wishes Jason could come back to complete it, too, but they’re too different.

There’s ruthlessness in every gesture she sees. The way he plops down onto the concrete is almost like he’s throwing himself onto the hard surface. His hair looks coarse, but it’s wet and moppy at the same time, likely that he left whatever hole he was keeping in right after a shower. He rubs at his eyes with such vigor that a lesser person thinks that they would’ve popped right out of their sockets. Dark circles accompany his blue eyes. Must’ve been tired. She wonders absently if he was participating in the Rosario investigation.

“Yes, it would seem that way,” she answers. Jason arches a brow but doesn’t question it further. The sky is a pale gray, not quite stormy yet not quite peaceful either. It doesn’t look like it might rain, but she has Alfred put an umbrella above her just in case. He’s busy organizing the new charity gala for mayoral elections, so she’s kept to herself for a while.

The only pseudo-sibling she’s never particularly gotten close to is Jason, who’s altogether too absent for them to build a rapport like she has with the others. His relationship with the family post-resurrection hasn’t exactly been the best either; nobody approves of his violent tendencies except perhaps Damian, who’s been slowly learning the empathy that was denied to him by the League of Assassins and the tutelage of his mother and grandfather. They find it hard to agree with his standpoint, but it doesn’t stop them from working together once in a blue moon. Point being, any cooperation is often rare and ends right after the bad guy is taken down.

She thinks that Jason likes it that way, the solitude that’s afforded to him because of his stance in life. He must be lonely deep down, of course, but he’d rather be alone than chastised his whole life for his decisions. It’s good that he’s getting some space to himself; he knows how to make himself comfortable. Which makes her wonder why he’s come. It can’t be just to remark that she’s become another one of Bruce Wayne’s charity cases and then to leave right after.

That’s what she thinks he’s doing at first because he gets up from the bench and starts pacing the length of the pavilion. His movements are slow but angry, almost like a large cat stalking its prey. She doesn’t like to think of herself as the latter, but he shows no antagonism to anything but the small, inconsequential insects that make their way across the ground to be crushed under his boot. He seems to be approaching the exit of the pavilion, but then stops abruptly and turns to her.

She’s taken aback by the storminess of his visage; there’s not anger, but the expression is not quite confusion nor fear. He’s torn by something, but she can’t imagine for the life of her what it is. “Do they…” Jason pauses, recollecting himself and rearranging his words. “Is my picture still hanging in the hallway?”

The hallway featuring the Wayne family portraits. It starts with the founders of Gotham, then down generation to generation until it gets to Thomas and Martha, with little Bruce cradled in their arms. In an adjacent corridor, the current, living Wayne family hangs. Bruce, then Alfred, then Dick, then Jason, then Damian. Cass shudders at the thought of having to sit for her own painting, though she could probably persuade Damian to do one for her, since he did such a good job with the dryad drawing last time.

Cass purses her lips. “Yes,” she says finally. “Of course it is.”

Jason doesn’t say anything in response. It seems to be the only question he wants to ask. Cass isn’t sure how to act around him. Their familiarity goes to the boundaries of operating together as vigilantes, and that’s about it. He’s a part of Bruce’s past she isn’t privy to. She knows what happened, but it isn’t as if she’s seen the ramifications first hand. Bruce has healed up quite nicely. She can’t be too sure about Jason.

He seems to be like her, though, so she sits in comfortable silence with him. There’s still a fidgety-ness to Jason. They’re still essentially strangers, after all, despite the relaxation Cass has decided to adopt around him. Jason is nowhere near such pretense. But silence is easy.

“You can always come home, you know,” Cass tells him after a pause. “Bruce misses you. Alfred and Dick miss you.” Jason lifts his head to look at her, but doesn’t respond. There’s a set to his jaw, though it doesn’t look like he’s any close to punching her. “If it’s some sort of ideological difference… you can always fix that.”

Jason blinks. “If only it were so easy.”

She can’t imagine why it would be hard. Though never particularly verbal throughout her life, her newfound understanding of language and its nuance allowed her to convey her feelings and complex thoughts in a comprehensible manner that extended beyond sign language. She found her own comfortable niche to express herself and share ideas with others.

Perhaps if Jason wasn’t so stubborn and if Bruce wasn’t so heavy-handed, they could’ve had that little family that they so desperately wanted. She sees part of that desire in Jason too, she thinks. That he was searching for somewhere to belong, because he’d been torn from the world so soon and thrust back into it without any sort of aid or assistance. He was left on his own, practically abandoned by an ignorant Bruce, forging his own identity out of his grief and anger.

Cass thinks about trying to get them back together. It’s a highly unlikely turn of events, but she thinks that her to-be adoptive father ought to be happy, more than merely satisfied. It would take a lot of work, and a lot of time, and she wasn’t sure if any of the parties involved had enough time to spare. There are too many dots to connect, the idea more like a fanciful thought than a personal goal.

But it sounds nice. 

She looks back up at Jason, who looks torn between staying and leaving. It’s midday; there’s no reason for him to be hunting criminals at the moment, so he’s looking, probably, to occupy time. Cass hums quietly, catching his attention. Jason’s brows are furrowed, looking more like a lost child than a reborn sentinel. Apprehension lines his features. He thinks she’s going to… turn him in, or something. To people who care about him and wouldn’t like to see him hurt.

It makes her heart ache. She’s seen children like that, trained by her father. Always waiting for the first chance to run off because of some perceived threat. Only difference is, he’s in a place of safety, a haven. Her peers weren’t ever so fortunate, drowned in fear in the hopes that overexposure would thus dull the emotion into nothingness. 

Jason wasn’t like that from what she’d heard from the others. Though he did come from a different background from Dick, hardened by it, he was still a capable partner to Bruce and his loss was felt by all in the League. His absence left a hole the family Cass could only hope to fill. It was a big responsibility, but they wouldn’t force it on her.

Her next thought gives her pause. She duels with herself in her mind for a moment, a lapse which Jason takes advantage of to make his escape. But she stops him with a single word, his shoulders hunching almost comically as he’s been caught creeping away.

“Wait,” Cass calls, and snickers at the way Jason turns to look at her, almost as if he was trying to punt daggers into her eyes, “I was just wondering… Would you like to stay for dinner?”

He does.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass starts over again.

The first day after the paperwork is filed doesn’t really feel any different. Everything happens as it usually does -- Alfred wakes her up with a polite knock on the door before entering, helps her into the bathroom to relieve herself, gives her a morning shower, puts her in her chair, and brings her down to the kitchen. This morning, her breakfast is her favorite -- an American style breakfast complete with pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, and sausages.

It’s a big meal and a lot of work for Alfred to both prepare and feed to her, but it’s something of a special day, even if it doesn’t quite feel special.

Cass has decided to keep her maiden name rather than switching to Wayne. Though it would probably raise brows once the information was made public, she was following in the footsteps of her predecessors. Dick, after all, had decided to keep his name in memory of his parents. The same would be with Cass. 

Her one-sided conversations with David (or his grave, rather) still give Steph pause, but it serves to be more cathartic than she could realize. It doesn’t bother her as much as it used to, so Cass is glad that Steph is starting to see things her way, even if doesn’t quite make sense to her sensibilities. Or at least accept it. They’re still in the learning stages of their relationship, despite its length. They’ve only experienced one hardship, but the mechanics of compromise are slowly continuing to work themselves out.

Regardless, Cass has decided not to shed her old skin, per say, but to metamorphosize into a new person. One might’ve made the case that she became someone new back when she’d lost her movement, but the only thing that had suffered a change was her outlook, which was immediately brought back up with the appropriate encouragement and aid from the people she needed most -- her new family. Post-adoption Cass, on the other hand, would be changing things up just ever so slightly.

Her general inclination towards pessimism and realism was always something that bothered her, deep down. A preference toward seeing things in a more negative light had brought her more strife than joy, not at all curbing disappointment like she had hoped her disposition would. So she resolved to change. Even if optimism came with the looming thought of letdown and discouragement, mind over matter worked wonders -- or so she learned.

She figures that the first day of her adoption is as good a day as any to start thinking about her life in a more positive way. No longer is she leaving an old life behind, but she’s opening a brand new door. Alfred must notice a change in her frame of mind with the amount that she’s smiling, because she finds that he’s smiling back and offering to let her take a stroll around the garden.

“It seems someone else is out there waiting for you,” he says with a wink, and Cass allows herself to be wheeled out to the garden. She can take it from there once she’s set down on the gravel, mouth latching onto the straw.

It can’t be Jason, who’d already left the morning before claiming some unfinished business. Neither Cass nor Bruce inquired as to what it was, but she supposed the latter was sated just by being in his presence. There was some residual tension, but the homeliness of a shared meal was enough to abate it just for one night. She suspects that Bruce appreciated the dinner more than Jason had, but Jason had liked it more than she expected him to.

Regardless, he was already long gone, vanished in the morning with only a simple note. It’s a weekend, and from what she could tell, Tim and Duke were going to watch a movie with their friends from school. Bruce was busy in the office -- an actual one, in a Wayne Enterprises office building in central Gotham -- while his son was busy training. Though Damian had at first bristled at Cass’s constructive criticism, he eventually learned to accept it, finding that his stance and balance improved with her direction. For the day, however, he wished to hone his skills on his own, ‘without distraction,’ and so Cass had respected his wishes.

This left only one other person who would like to see her in the gardens, and her heart flutters with the thought. Her excitement heightens when she sees a head of blonde hair among the rose bushes, calling out to Steph as she approaches.

Steph rises from her little squat, gardening gloves on with a pair of shears in her hand. In the other she holds a couple of roses, not yet blooming but just about to. She gives Cass a near blinding smile and waves over, waiting patiently until Cass is close enough to give her a tentative hug.

The movement is still made awkward and stilted with the chair she needs to maneuver around, but Cass lets her head fall into the crook of Steph’s neck, flushing bright pink when Steph pulls back to give her a chaste kiss. “What are you doing?” Cass asks, eyeing the assortment of flowers Steph seems to have collected on the floor.

There’s a variety of pinks, whites, and reds, daisies and astilbes and carnations among others. Seated beside the meticulously categorized flowers is a glass vase, filled slightly with water. Cass watches Steph sit down beside her, trimming the roses’ thorns. “I’m working on a… shall we say, pet project, for Alfred. I mean… he’s been taking care of us -- all of us -- for a long time and we don’t really do anything to appreciate it, right? A thank you once in a while, but that dinner we tried planning for him fell through, so. I thought a more personal gift would be in order.”

“But he knows you’re out here,” Cass says, brows raised. She likes the idea, but it wouldn’t be much of a surprise.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know what I’m doing with the flowers out here. Could be for you, for all he knows.” Steph pauses, then looks up at her with pursed lips. “Would you like some?”

Cass splutters, taken aback. “Uh, flowers are nice, but they’re not really my thing, I think --”

Steph reaches up to tuck a red rose behind Cass’s ear. She laughs as she pulls back, brushing Cass’s cheek with a knuckle. “You look so pretty, Cass. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” With that, she turns back to her flowers, continuing to de-thorn and humming a cheerful tune.

Cass mumbles something about not being embarrassed, and instead turns her attention to the little pet project before her. “What do the flowers mean?” she asks. “It probably isn’t the best idea to just slap a bunch of pretty things together and hope that he likes it. He knows things. Lots of things.”

“He does,” Steph agrees, “so I did some research. Pink carnations are gonna be the focus of this arrangement, so everything else is gonna be filler -- except for the dozen red roses. Both the number of red roses and the color of the carnations symbolize gratitude, while white daisies obviously symbolize innocence. Because we would all be lost, innocent lambs without him.”

Cass laughs. “I see you’ve put plenty of thought into this.”

“Of course I have. I thought you would’ve had more faith in me, Cassandra Cain.”

“Of course I do.” She turns her gaze back to the arrangement. “So why am I here?” Aside from sitting there and appreciating the aesthetics of Steph’s flower arrangement. She can’t think of anything at the moment that might be a better way to spend her first day as a Wayne, so she simply waits for Steph’s answer. Getting to spend time with her girlfriend while simultaneously doing a good deed to boot is something positive, at least.

“To tell me if I go too lopsided.” Steph starts gathering the flowers in her hand, first bunching up the carnations before picking up a few daisies to stick in here or there. “You might be here for a while, just so you know.” She winks, then sticks the flowers out. “So how am I doing so far?”

“Eh,” Cass snorts. “Could be better. With more flowers, of course.”

Steph tosses a bunch of grass at her in retaliation, but laughs and resumes to work on the arrangement. They sit there for an hour, with Cass offering commentary every now and then. Alfred doesn’t come out of the house once, most likely too preoccupied with cooking, cleaning, and making sure Damian comes up for lunch, and as such is rather surprised when Steph wheels Cass, who has the vase placed in her lap, back in the manor.

“Girls,” he gasps, “what is this?”

“For you,” Cass says, smiling. “For all your hard work over the years. I know that we don’t show it very often, but we’re so grateful for all that you do for us.”

Alfred takes the vase from her lap, placing it on the marble top counter. He sniffs the carnations, letting a smile settle on his lips. “Thank you for the gift, Cass, Miss Stephanie.” He rubs his chin, looking sheepish, a first for both Steph and Cass. “But I’m afraid I’m not quite well-versed in the language of flowers. I suppose I’ll have to dig the book out from the library, won’t I?”

“You learn something new every day,” Cass mutters to Steph, who barely manages to cover her laugh with her hand.

* * *

Barbara tells her that she got in touch with her surgeon in South Africa, just in case. The conversation is, of course, stilted and awkward -- after all, how does one bring up the possibility of a surgery with such a small success rate correcting the other’s paralysis gently? Cass appreciates the effort, nonetheless. Barbara didn’t have to go through the trouble, but she did.

It would be a lie to say Cass hasn’t thought about it. 30% is extremely small when considering percentage, but for an operation that could potentially change her standard of living, revert it back to what it used to be, it’s actually a pretty high chance. And she’s younger than Barbara was when she got her surgery, meaning that her body is more malleable and adaptable to healing.

Thus, all signs point to her being able to successfully recover through the operation. The remainder of doubt that still dwelt in her mind lamented her wasting months of her life on physical therapy that didn’t help at all, that she could’ve been out of the mess her stupidity had put her in within a matter of weeks if she’d only contacted Barbara sooner. She shakes the idea out of her head as soon as it arrives.

Though ‘growing pains’ is hardly a term by which to refer the early months of her disability, Cass is confident she’s grown stronger from the experience. Maybe it would suit her career goals if she were to get the surgery, but it still stood that her character improved considerably when she lost her mobility.

She’d never considered the difficulty others who shared her disability went through until she finally was forced into that lifestyle, finding a whole new respect for her peers and community. When she went outside with her wheelchair and assistant, be it Alfred or Steph, she learned what casual discrimination they endured every single day. It was not something easy to experience on her own, but in the end she became a better person.

And in any case, she makes a good trainer. Though Bruce and Damian don’t spend enough time training for her to consider herself one of their mentors (and she balks at the thought of undermining the former’s superiority), she still has taken to giving them tips and tricks she’s learned from her time as her father’s little experiment.

It’s as good a career as any, teaching others to defend themselves, and in the case of Bruce and Damian and the other members of the Batfamily, teaching others so that they may be able to defend the less fortunate. Though she’s not the one doing the protecting, knowing that she has ensured that her former coworkers will be able to continue safeguarding Gotham puts her at ease.

But that doesn’t make her non-human. The idea of South Africa crosses her mind every once in a while. The only person she’s ever brought the idea up to is Bruce, though, who seemed inordinately surprised by her consideration.

“I thought you were…,” he shrugs. “Satisfied. With your lot, I guess.”

She hesitates to think of her condition as ‘her lot,’ but doesn’t comment on it. “I don’t know. It’s just a thought, sometimes. There’s no guarantee of success, but sometimes I just can’t stop thinking of hypotheticals, y’know?”

He knows, probably better than anyone. She knows he still dreams of his parents surviving the attack, of what his life would’ve been like if Joe Chill hadn’t decided to look at Martha Wayne’s pretty pearls in Crime Alley. From what she gathered, Bruce would probably still be spoiled, but considerably sweeter, given his upbringing. Maybe a bit blind to the suffering of the people of lower socioeconomic classes, like he pretends to be in his public persona. There’s almost a guarantee that he would still be involved in charity work, though he would still be sheltered from the truth if only because Alfred or his parents babied him still too much to see it.

There wouldn’t be a chance of them knowing each other beyond a passing mention of his celebrity, and she wouldn’t be here right now. She wouldn’t have met the Batman, who wouldn’t have existed, and she wouldn’t have met Stephanie Brown. She wouldn’t have decided to take a midnight swim with the girl she wouldn’t have met, and she wouldn’t have broken her neck. 

Cass probably would’ve continued being her father’s pawn, with no one in Gotham to protect the city’s light from its dark underbelly. There would be no chance of her escaping David Cain’s influence as the Batman’s covert operative, and she would only exist as a proof against Mother’s machinations.

Perhaps Superman would’ve stepped in then, if things got too out of hand. Maybe he would’ve become her father figure (though it isn’t as if he hasn’t adopted the role already by proxy of Bruce’s involvement) and eventual adoptive father. Though that seems unlikely, given a reporter’s salary and the cost of not only fighting for custody but also raising a child in general. It’s always hard to adopt for single parents, and Clark would most definitely be single.

Bruce Wayne, after all, would be infinitely less interesting to the otherworldly Kryptonian if he weren’t the Batman, and if he never was at all -- an innocent but well-meaning billionaire who could never match the edge of a brooding, handsome vigilante. So Clark wouldn’t have stood a chance with the adoption agency, though perhaps he might’ve pawned her off to his mother like he does Conner.

The world would’ve been completely different.

But her thoughts always run away from her.

Bruce watches her carefully, examining and hoping to predict her reactions to whatever statements he is formulating in his head. “So if you’re thinking about it… should I look into it?”

Barbara’s insurance covered her surgery, from what Cass recalled, but Cass has no such thing and Bruce would probably have to pay for the operation out of pocket -- not an easy task, even for a billionaire like himself. He’s not Tony Stark, whose net worth is a guesstimated 3 billion more, and to ask him for such a high price isn’t like her.

She’d rather suffer in silence than take advantage of one’s kindness, no matter how enticingly offered. Besides, suffering is a rather strong word for what she’s come to accept now. Things will always be hard, and phantom pains still exist despite her limbs still being attached. Soreness, brought about by her own brain in a fit of confusion, still plagues her sometimes, especially around her neck, which feels forever tired for having to hold her head up the whole time.

Cass shakes her head. “No, no thank you, Bruce. It’s a nice thought, but I think I’m happy where I am now.”

Bruce gives her a little smile, like he expected that from her. “So long as you’re happy, Cass.”

And if she’s thinking about it, she really is happy. Yes, things could be better, but anyone and everyone can say that about their current situation. The only difference lies in whether they would chase after that better at any cost, or be satisfied with their life as it is and accept any tweaks that make it better along the way with gratitude.

Happiness is the ultimate motivation of all human beings, essentially just operating under the belief that at the end of the day, whatever they do will bring them happiness. Be it eating, sleeping, helping others, or even harming them. Whatever the reason, actions are performed to achieve happiness. Even if one doesn’t do something they like, like working a boring desk job for eight hours, the end result will bring them some form of joy, like the paycheck they receive at the end of the week.

That being said, Cass finds herself in a bit of a limbo state right now. She doesn’t quite feel motivated yet to do anything, really, but simply continuing on her daily routine is enough to keep her sated. It satisfies her to know that she’s able to live every day, free will and freedom granted to her by the people around her, who respect her opinion and endeavor every day to make life a little easier for her because it has decided to make itself hard. She can’t ask for more.

As she turns the chair to exit, she pauses, craning her head back slightly to look at Bruce. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I think I am pretty happy.”

* * *

Cass doesn’t have any first days at school to really compare, so the jittery nerves she feels about stepping foot (or rolling wheels, as it were) on campus are completely unadulterated. Steph’s there by her side, of course, having graciously scored admission both as a helper and a student. Bruce had to pull a couple of strings for that, but he was more than willing to pay her tuition so that Cass wouldn’t be all by herself in this.

Some independence was good, but school was a completely different environment than she was used to. She could take care of herself on a mission, either helping out at HQ or even defending herself as best she was able (which usually only involved rolling away, though Bruce had joked he might end up outfitting her chair with a number of weapons controlled by her straw). But academics? The closest she’s ever gotten to actual schooling were Alfred’s literacy lessons.

She read as much as she could in her spare time, learning as much as she could so that she wouldn’t be too far behind. But she had no idea what kids were learning these days. Arithmetic? Studying literature? Duke and Tim tried to help out as best they could, but even they couldn’t predict what classes she would be sorted into during the new year.

She tries not to think about it as something terrifying, leaving her quaking in her chair. But it is. Everything is so new, and so fresh, and Cass is so unsure of the expectations the people around her have for her. They know she used to be ‘homeschooled,’ though that in itself is stretching the truth quite a bit, and that she isn’t a native English speaker. Possibly because she isn’t a native speaker at all. So maybe they’ll be lenient on her -- or maybe they’ll be even more rough and aggressive, since she doesn’t quite fit the bill of what is referred to as ‘normal.’

Not to mention the inconvenience she might be perceived as, a student who needs assistance in almost everything she does. Bruce has assured her that Steph will be her caretaker while she’s on campus, so that third-party services won’t have to be contracted in order to help out. Steph corroborates Bruce’s claim, and insists to Cass that despite having to take on an extra workload as the person assisting Cass with her needs the entire school day her grades and work will not suffer.

“Just means I have to work harder,” Steph had said, though Cass wasn’t at all convinced.

But she’s doing nobody any good while letting her imagination run wild like that, so she also likes to force herself to consider the positives of attending school.

She’s getting to experience something new. (Though, if one thinks about it, she’s basically trading one daily routine for another). And she gets to experience everything with Steph by her side. The two of them will be together effectively all day, at least until Steph leaves for patrol. And Duke and Tim will also be there to keep her company during lunchtime, volunteers to take over for Steph should she fall ill and be unable to help Cass out. She’s also made some other friends in the meantime: though they haven’t spoken much, Maps and Olive are more-than-acquaintances who have told her that they would be more than willing to be her friends and lunch-buddies if the others weren't there.

Cass is grateful for the support, even if the two haven’t known her well enough yet to be considered actual friends; it’s the thought that counts of course.

Steph knows and feels better than anyone her nervousness when they start. The car ride in it itself is spent fidgeting as much as much as she can -- shown by the rapid movement of her eyes as she takes in the surroundings. It’s not like Cass has never seen the streets of Gotham before, but everything’s so acute and new and perhaps a bit startling, maybe because she wants to hold onto the familiarity for as long as she can before she’s thrust into the unknown.

Before long, the large iron gates of the school are approaching. Truth be told, Cass can also sense the nervousness that radiates from Steph as well. They’re both new here, so they’ll have to rely on each other, even if Cass has to put in more faith and trust than Steph. Part of her wonders why Steph wasn’t rejected as a helper then, but she supposes that that must’ve been one of the strings Bruce pulled to get Steph admission in the first place. Something about Cassandra preferring familiarity over a mandated helper; after all, he wouldn’t have been wrong.

“You ready for this?” Steph asks as she helps her down from the car. There’s trepidation in her eyes as well, but Cass can tell that she’s attempting to mask it so that at least one of them will seem ready for what’s to come. Must be hard for Steph, to be yanked out of her old school where her old friends were. But at least she’s got friends here, too. “I’m ready.”

“Me too,” Cass eventually says, once the wheels of her chair hit the ground.

She takes an experimental look around. The students are all milling about, forming their little cliques and talking about their day, presumably. Cass doesn’t want to eavesdrop on the conversations; she has no right to, as the new kid, though she can make out some “what did you do on Saturday”s and “did you see what happened at that party”s.

A few looks are thrown back at her, followed by some questions about the new kids that Bruce Wayne just adopted. Technically, there is only one ‘kid’ adopted by Bruce Wayne, but Cass doesn’t feel comfortable correcting them just yet. It might embarrass them, too, getting caught gossiping by the person they’re gossiping about.

They make their way to the office without much preamble, though the stares grow exponentially in number. Cass keeps her head high through all of them, though. She occasionally turns to meet one head on, and has found that she receives one of two reactions -- the more common one is the student in question turns away hurriedly with the tips of their ears red; the other, less common, but more appreciated because of it, has students offering a tentative smile and wave. Cass tries her best to return the former, but she disappears into the building before any of the smilers can approach.

She spends her time there looking around the office while Steph gets their schedules, which will no doubt be identical. She hears the secretary distantly asking about having Cass put in a special ed class instead, but Steph declines and says that she is more than capable of handling the workload that each of her selected classes has to offer.

Cass catches Steph squeezing her hand before they leave the office, calling back thanks to the secretary as they make their way to their first class.

As it turns out, the first class they have is calculus. Cass tries to comfort Steph as she grumbles her way through the list, lamenting that literature would be dead last in the day. Cass spent all the time that she could before school studying, but she couldn’t say the same for Steph. She wasn’t quite sure what the blonde was doing in her free time, aside from being with Cass and going out with her on the weekends.

But they find the class easily enough, and Cass promises to help Steph with whatever she needs if she’s having any difficulty. “But I’m supposed to be helping you,” Steph mumbles.

“Tit for tat,” Cass says simply, and leaves it at that.

They’re a bit earlier than the rest, having made their way before the bell so that they would beat the rush of students flooding the hallways during passing period. The teacher welcomes them with an uncertain smile, and offers Cass a seat at the front of the class -- also placed there in the case that she would be able to escape any stampeding students when transferring locations.

It’s a brief few minutes before the bell rings, and then students start trickling in. Some of them, Cass recognizes from the yard, but she doesn’t say anything and instead watches them all file into the classroom, faces buried in their schedules. She thinks she sees Maps’s brother sitting in the back of the classroom, though she’s only ever seen him in pictures and not in person. She can see the resemblance.

There’s a minute bell warning for the tardy bell, and the teacher rises to close the door, barely missing a straggler who stumbles in at the last second. Cass settles in her seat, ready to pay the utmost attention. Steph is pulling out a notebook and pencil, twirling the latter in her fingers as she waits patiently.

Cass tries to quell the anticipation in her core, spreading almost like vibrations across her body. She doesn’t even notice her right pinky move of its own accord, unaltered by gravity. She’s far too focused on something more important, at the moment.

“Good morning,” the teacher says, after a pause following the bell waiting for the students to quiet down. “Welcome to Calculus I. I hope we’re going to have a great new school year together…”


End file.
